OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


Barbara 


Barbara 

A  Woman  of  the  West 

By 

John  H.  Whitson 


Illustrated   by 
CHASE    EMERSON 


Boston 
Little,  Brown,  and  Company 

1903 


Copyright,  /poj, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published   April,    1903 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS    •    JOHN    WILSON 
AND     SON      •      CAMBRIDGE,     U.  S.  A. 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE   GOLDEN  FLEECE I 

II.  WAITING 20 

III.  IN  THE  GOLD  CAMP  OF  THE   ROCKIES  .  38 

IV.  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  "  DAILY  CLIPPER  "  57 
V.  JACK   NIXON'S  RECOLLECTIONS       ....  72 

VI.  THE  JOURNEY  TO  THE  SUNSET  SEA  ...  82 

VII.  GILBERT  BREAM 91 

VIII.  THE  FALL  OF  CASTLE  CONTENT        .      .      .  109 

IX.  THE  DOVE  IN  THE  HAWK'S  NEST    .      .      .  119 

X.  AN  ARMED  TRUCE 130 

XI.  IN  THE  HANDS  OF  FATE 140 

XII.  LOOKING  BACKWARD 148 

XIII.  THE  SEARCH  FOR  ROGER  TIMBERLY       .      .  163 

XIV.  THE  MAN  AT  FEATHER  Bow       ....  184 

XV.  IN    THE    GRIP    OF    THE    BLIZZARD    ....  2O6 

XVI.  DEFEAT 223 

XVII.  THE  VICTORY  OF  THE  WINGED  GOD    .     .  234 

XVIII.  "  BARBARA  :  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  SPIRIT  "  248 

XIX.  "ALEXANDER  VANE" 263 

XX.  A  STRANGE  STORY  ........  280 

XXI.  FACE  TO  FACE 298 


M598751 


Illustrations 

"He  brought  an  invitation  for  her  to  spend 

the  night  at  their  house  " Frontispiece 

"  Her  hands  shook  as  she  drew  out  the 

contents" Page  72 

"  He  was  giving  his  entire  attention  to  the 

management  of  the  boat " „  103 

"  He  shot  downward  from  point  to  point 

with  reckless  daring  " ^212 

u  '  It  is  the  old,  old  story,  Barbara  ' '  .  .  „  24 1 


BARBARA 

A    WOMAN    OF    THE    WEST 
CHAPTER   I 

THE   GOLDEN   FLEECE 

ANEW  growth  of  buffalo  grass  was  tint 
ing  the  mossy  carpet  of  the  plains  a  dull 
gray-green.  In  the  flat  valley  the  wild-pea 
vines  sprawled  and  rioted,  and  the  purple  bloom 
of  the  loco  splotched  the  slopes  of  the  hills. 
Out  on  the  tall  fence-post  that  formed  a  corner 
of  the  corral  a  meadow  lark  was  smoothing  the 
feathers  of  his  yellow  vest,  disarranged  by  the 
bath  he  had  taken  in  the  drinking- trough. 
Farther  away  the  browsing  cattle,  in  the  bluish 
haze  that  melted  into  and  obliterated  the  sky 
line,  grew  taller  and  taller,  under  the  influence 
of  the  miragy  atmosphere,  until  they  took  on 
the  semblance  of  a  fantastic  forest  and  moved 
like  Birnam  Wood. 

Barbara  Timberly  came  to  the  door  of  the 
"  claim  "  house  and  looked  out.  She  was  not 
drawn  by  the  quiet  beauty  of  the  scene.  It 


Barbara 

was  all  flat,  dull,  and  commonplace  to  her. 
What  little  attraction  of  novelty  claim  life  had 
held  for  her  had  vanished  long  since.  The 
cattle  in  the  blue  heat-like  shimmer  gave  to  her 
imagination  no  romantic  feeling,  and  the  song 
of  the  lark  fell  on  ears  that  were  now  deaf  to 
its  sweetness. 

As  she  stood  thus  shading  her  eyes  from  the 
blinding  glare  of  the  sun  she  seemed  barely 
twenty.  The  trying  Kansas  wind,  which  had 
browned  the  fair  face  and  the  slender  uplifted 
hand,  tumbled  her  hair  in  a  bewitching  tangle 
about  her  forehead.  Her  poise  was  so  grace 
ful  and  her  beauty  so  marked  that  Roger  Tim- 
berly,  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  table  at  which 
he  sat  writing,  smiled  with  the  pleasure  it  gave 
him  just  to  look  at  her. 

The  "  br-r-r,  br-r-r "  of  drought-loosened 
spokes  and  the  clatter  of  light  hoofs  that  had 
drawn  Tier  to  the  door  now  sounded  more  dis 
tinctly. 

"  Some  of  the  neighbors  coming  ?  "  he  asked, 
putting  down  his  pen  and  weighting  his  paper. 

A  pair  of  bronchos,  drawing  a  buckboard, 
were  swimming  into  view  through  the  haze. 
She  scrutinized  the  figure  outlined  uncertainly 
in  the  seat. 

"  I  don't  know  yet." 

2 


The  Golden  Fleece 

A  minute  later  she  was  able  to  announce  the 
driver  as  a  stranger. 

Roger  Timberly  rose  from  his  chair,  lounged 
to  the  door,  and  stood  at  her  side.  The  house 
was  some  distance  back  from  the  trail  that 
diagonalled  the  section,  and  the  approach  of  a 
vehicle  was  an  event  of  sufficient  importance  to 
draw  their  attention. 

They  stood  together  in  the  doorway  until 
the  light  buckboard  drew  up  at  the  well  and 
the  driver  began  to  climb  heavily  out  over  the 
wheel.  He  was  a  man  of  forty,  with  tired,  dark 
eyes  and  a  lean,  bearded  face.  The  bronchos 
were  sweating  freely  and  straining  to  get  at  the 
water  in  the  trough,  and  it  was  evident  that  the 
stranger  had  driven  far  and  hard.  As  he  loos 
ened  the  reins  to  permit  them  to  drink  he 
turned  toward  Roger,  who  had  advanced  from 
the  doorway. 

"  'T  ain't  no  durned  funny  bizness  drivin' 
over  these  plains,"  he  commented.  "  I  'm 
tuckered,  an'  'f  you  kin  gimme  a  hangout  over 
night  I  'd  like  to  stop.  All  of  fifteen  miles  yit 
to  Paragon,  I  reckon  ?  " 

"  Fully  that,"  said  Roger,  eyeing  his  would- 
be  guest.  "  We  're  not  in  the  habit  of  keeping 
anybody,  but  —  " 

"  It  'd  be  doin'  me  a  handy  turn,"  the  man 
3 


Barbara 

interposed.  "  I  calkilate  that  't  ain't  favorin' 
my  health  any  to  sleep  out  when  I  don't  haf ' 
to." 

He  dipped  a  bucket  of  water  and  held  it  up 
to  the  oft  broncho,  that  was  being  crowded 
away  from  the  trough  by  the  breast-yoke ;  and 
Roger,  observing  that  the  hands  shook  from 
weakness,  looked  again  at  the  face,  and  saw 
that  the  stranger  was  ill  and  suffering. 

"  Just  wait  a  minute/'  he  said ;  "  I  '11  speak 
to  my  wife." 

He  was  back  by  the  time  the  bucket  was  put 
down,  with  the  information  that  the  man  could 
stay  and  was  welcome.  Then  he  pointed  the 
way  to  the  small  stable,  half  plank  and  half 
sod,  where  he  assisted  in  unharnessing  and 
feeding  the  team. 

<c  I  can't  pay  you,"  the  man  observed,  with 
some  hesitation,  giving  Roger  a  sidelong 
glance  out  of  his  tired,  dark  eyes,  and  rubbing 
his  lean,  bearded  face  with  a  knobby  forefinger, 
as  they  turned  toward  the  house.  "  Me  an' 
Hard  Luck  had  a  tussle  out  in  th'  Hills,  an' 
he  downed  me." 

He  coughed  apologetically. 

"  We  had  no  thought  of  charging  you  any 
thing,"  Roger  assured,  stepping  along  at  his 
side. 


The  Golden  Fleece 

The  stranger  was  as  tall  as  Roger,  but  he 
shambled  and  bent  as  he  walked,  and  seemed 
much  slighter  and  shorter. 

"  I  guess  I  did  n't  give  you  my  name,"  he 
volunteered.  "It's  Bexar — Joseph  Bexar, 
and  I  'm  a  miner  and  prospector." 

Roger  introduced  himself,  and  entering  the 
house  presented  Bexar  to  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Timberly  placed  a  chair  for  Bexar,  who 
began  to  apologize  for  his  intrusion. 

"  It's  no  trouble  at  all,"  she  insisted  kindly. 
"  We  're  not  over-burdened  with  company  here, 
and  are  glad  to  have  some  one  drop  in  now 
and  then  that  we  can  talk  to." 

"  I  Ve  noticed  that  women  don't  enjoy  fron- 
tierin'  like  men,"  Bexar  observed,  leaning  back 
in  the  comfortable  rocker  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"  I  reckon  nature  did  n't  cut  'em  out  fer  it." 

"  There  's  a  bit  of  philosophy  that  I  wish 
you  'd  jot  down  in  one  of  your  note-books, 
Roger,"  said  Barbara,  as  she  began  to  prepare 
for  the  evening  meal.  "  I  Ve  told  Roger  that 
a  dozen  times,  Mr.  Bexar,  yet  he  insists  that 
I  am  exceptional." 

Bexar  smiled  wearily. 

"  It 's  too  lonesome  fer  'em.  A  woman  that 
don't  like  comp'ny  is  giner'ly  so  homely  that 
she  wants  t'  hide  when  the  neighbors  come  in. 

5 


Barbara 

That's  my  observation.  Tryin'  t'  git  some 
land  by  home-steadin'  ?  "  he  queried,  glancing 
from  one  to  the  other,  arid  wondering  why  such 
people  were  vegetating  on  the  plains  of  Western 
Kansas.  "  It 's  my  notion  that  a  man  pays 
double  fer  every-acre-he  gits  in  that  way.  You 
might  make  enough  money  in  Paragon  to  buy 
the  land  twice  over  in  the  five  years  you  Ve  got 
t'  stay  on  it,  er  you  might  strike  a  good  min- 
in'  claim  up  in  the  mountains  an'  be  richer  'n 
Croesop  in  less  'n  half  that  time." 

His  face  brightened  with  eagerness.  Bar 
bara  saw  Roger  hitch  his  chair  nearer  and  look 
at  the  stranger  with  shining  eyes. 

"  1  Ve  never  been  to  the  mountains,"  he 
observed,  in  a  tone  that  invited  further  com 
ment. 

"  No  ?  Well,  that 's  the  place  fer  a  live  man 
t'  go  if  he  wants  t'  make  his  pile  an'  make  it 
quick.  Bad  health  got  me  by  th'  hip  er  I  'd 
be  there  now.  I  've  jist  missed  bein'  a  mil 
lionaire  more  'n  a  dozen  times,  I  reckon.  I 
could  n't  never  seem  to  hold  on  long  enough 
—  that  was  the  trouble.  I  was  in  on  the 
ground  floor,  as  y'  may  say,  in  Californy 
Gulch,  up  at  Leadville,  in  the  early  days." 

He  rubbed  his  fingers  nervously  through 
his  stubby  beard. 

6 


The  Golden  Fleece 

"  Me  an'  Jim  Springer  was  up  there,  lookin' 
f 'r  gold.  We  never  thought  o'  silver,  an'  when 
that  heavy  black  sand  that  they  now  call  lead 
carbonates  got  into  our  pans  an*  clogged  our 
riffles,'we  did  n't  have  no  more  sense  'n  t'  damn 
it  f'r  a  nuisance  and  throw  it  away.  That 
sand  was  cussed  nigh  pure  silver,  an'  it  has 
made  Leadville  th'  richest  silver  camp  in  th' 
world.  'T  was  on'y  a  lack  o'  good  common 
horse  sense  th't  kep'  me  frum  bein'  a  Leadville 
silver  king  with  a  bank  account  longer 'n  frum 
hyer  to  Denver.  Jim,  he  stayed,  an'  he  made 

it ;   I  come  away  like  a  durn  fool  an'  lost  my 
i  j  ? 

chance. 

His  voice  dropped  apathetically. 

"  And  did  you  never  get  anything  out  of 
it  ?  "  was  Barbara's  sympathetic  question. 

"Nothin',  'ceptin'  a  lesson  that  did  n't  do 
me  no  good,"  he  said,  rousing  again.  "  I  had 
a  claim  out  in  Utah  that  looked  so  mighty 
promisin'  that  I  built  on  it  big.  Ole  Tom 
Bridger  uv  Provo  grubstaked  me  an'  was  with 
me  in  it.  He  spent  a  lot  o'  money  and  I  put 
in  five  years'  hard  work  on  that  hole  in  th' 
ground,  not  takin'  out  enough  t'  pay  th'  ex 
penses.  Then  the  lode  petered  an'  I  quit.  A 
year  er  so  afterward  Sol  Rosenfield,  a  Salt  Lake 
Jew,  stuck  his  pick  into  that  tunnel,  an'  before 

7 


Barbara 

he  'd  worked  ten  hours  he  opened  up  the  lead 
ag'in.  You  Ve  heard  o'  the  King  David  mine  ? 
That  was  it.  Rosenfield  took  eight  hundred 
thousan'  dollars  out  o'  the  King  David  an'  then 
sold  it  fer  a  half  a  million  more.'* 

The  reminiscent  flood  thus  let  loose  warmed 
and  brightened  Bexar  until  he  seemed  a  changed 
man.  Roger  Timberly  was  quite  as  eager  to 
listen  to  Bexar' s  stories  as  the  latter  was  to 
tell  them.  They  fired  his  quick  imagination, 
and  he  plied  Bexar  with  questions  about  lodes 
and  placers,  the  chances  of  attaining  to  sudden 
wealth  in  the  mountains,  the  different  kinds  of 
mining,  and  the  various  methods  of  reducing 
ores.  To  Barbara  much  of  it  was  jargon. 

"  I  should  n't  be  able  to  recognize  a  stamp 
mill  if  I  were  to  meet  one  in  the  road,"  she 
confessed  humorously,  as  she  poured  Bexar's 
coffee.  "  I  suppose  it  has  something  to  do 
with  mining  ;  though  for  all  I  know  it  may  be 
used  to  stamp  dollars  or  cancel  stamps  in  a 
post  office.  Do  you  take  sugar,  Mr.  Bexar?" 

For  the  first  time  Bexar  opened  his  lips  in  a 
hearty  laugh.  He  took  sugar  in  his  coffee,  but 
he  took  very  little  else.  He  was  "  dead  tired  " 
from  his  long  drive,  he  said,  and  was  afraid  he 
was  not  very  well.  Nevertheless,  under  Roger's 
questioning  he  talked  until  a  late  hour,  and 


The  Golden  Fleece 

was  then  shown  by  Roger  into  the  room  he 
was  to   occupy. 

Bexar  tossed  restlessly  during  the  night,  and 
awoke  in  the  morning  with  a  high  fever  that 
somewhat  alarmed  Barbara.  Roger  produced 
some  medicines  he  had  ready  for  emergencies, 
and  Barbara  bathed  the  sick  man's  head  and 
face,  and  sought  in  various  ways  to  make  him 
comfortable. 

Bexar  seemed  so  much  worse  that  afternoon 
and  night,  that  when  another  morning  came 
Roger  was  on  the  point  of  driving  to  Paragon 
for  a  doctor ;  but  Bexar,  who  had  no  money  to 
pay  a  doctor,  roused  himself  when  he  learned  of 
this,  declared  that  he  was  very  much  better,  and 
begged  Roger  to  abandon  the  idea.  As  if  to 
make  good  his  assurance  he  began  to  improve 
almost  immediately,  and  was  soon  considered 
by  the  Timberlys  to  be  out  of  danger.  A 
week  went  by,  however,  before  he  was  able  to 
leave  his  bed,  and  nearly  another  week  linked 
itself  to  that  before  he  felt  strong  enough  to 
continue  his  eastward  journey. 

During  that  time  the  Timberlys  learned  all 
he  had  to  tell  of  himself  and  his  past.  He  had 
been  within  reach  of  a  fortune  a  score  of  times. 
As  a  prospector  he  had  picked  up  and  now 
held  a  number  of  mining  claims,  any  one  of 

9 


Barbara 

which  might  turn  out  worthless  or  yield  fabu 
lously,  with  the  chances  much  in  favor  of  the 
former.  These  mining  claims,  with  the  buck- 
board  and  the  bronchos,  were  the  only  things 
he  now  possessed  in  the  world  ;  and  his  only 
living  relative  was  a  cousin  residing  in  Central 
Kansas,  of  whom  he  told  little  except  that  the 
home  of  this  cousin  was  his  present  destination. 

After  the  fever  left  Bexar,  Roger  returned 
to  his  interrupted  writings.  He  told  Bexar 
that  he  was  an  author,  and  that  instead  of 
raising  cattle  or  tilling  the  soil  like  his  neigh 
bors,  he  made  his  living  by  writing  sketches 
and  tales. 

This  was  a  very  mysterious  sort  of  trade  to 
Bexar,  who  lay  many  hours  quietly  watching 
Roger  as  he  scratched  away  at  a  table.  Barbara 
seemed  to  be  an  author,  too,  for  she  did  about 
as  much  writing  as  Roger  ;  but  when  Bexar 
questioned  her  she  said  she  was  only  copying 
and  never  did  any  original  work.  This  was 
about  as  much  of  a  muddle  to  him  as  his  talks 
of  mining  matters  had  been  to  her,  for  he  had 
as  little  idea  of  the  meaning  of"  original  work" 
as  she  had  of  the  appearance  of  a  stamp  mill. 

In  studying  Barbara,  Bexar  found  himself 
contrasting  her  with  Roger,  very  much  to  the 
disparagement  of  the  latter,  and  he  was  more 

10 


The  Golden  Fleece 

than  once  vexed  to  the  point  of  anger  by  some 
bit  of  selfishness  displayed  by  Roger  or  by 
some  word  of  sharp  reproof. 

When  it  came  to  looks,  Roger  was  equally 
at  a  disadvantage ;  for  though  at  first  sight 
Bexar  had  thought  them  a  handsome  couple, 
he  came  very  readily  to  the  conclusion  that 
Barbara  possessed  most  of  the  good  looks  as 
well  as  most  of  the  goodness.  Roger's  gray 
eyes  were  sunken  and  weak,  his  chest  flat,  his 
features  angular,  and  his  brushy  mustache  stiff 
and  wiry.  Careless  of  his  personal  appearance, 
he  lounged  about  in  a  faded  smoking-jacket 
and  slippers,  while  Barbara  always  impressed 
Bexar  as  being  tidily  neat. 

"  I  reckon  I  '11  be  strong  enough  t'  go  on 
t'-morrow,"  he  said,  dropping  into  a  chair  and 
looking  at  her.  "  You  've  been  so  tarnation 
good  t'  me  that  'f  I  had  a  forchin  I  'd  be  willin' 
t'  give  it  t'  ye,  as  a  sort  o'  half  pay  Pr  what 
you  've  done.  I  ain't  got  nothin',  though, 
that's  very  promisin',  'cept  them  minin'  claims. 
I  'm  goin'  t'  make  over  t'  you  th'  one  that 's 
near  Cripple  Crick.  If  any  of  'em  ever  turns 
out  well,  that'll  be  th'  one." 

"  We  don't  want  any  pay,  Mr.  Bexar/' 
Barbara  protested. 

"  Likely  I  should  n't  feel  as  I  do  if  you  reely 


Barbara 

wanted  pay/'  said  Bexar,  rubbing  his  beard 
nervously.  "  It's  jist  because  you  don't  want 
anything,  an'  because  sich  kindness  could  n't 
be  paid  fer  in  a  thousan'  years,  that  I  'm  goin' 
t'  make  over  that  claim  t'  you.  If  it  turns 
out  well,  there  '11  not  be  anybody  gladder  'n 
me." 

It  was  a  purpose  from  which  he  could  not 
be  turned.  When  this  became  clear,  Roger 
suggested  that  a  small  sum  should  be  named 
as  a  consideration  in  the  articles  of  transfer, 
and  insisted  on  paying  Bexar  at  least  ten  dollars, 
to  help  him  on  his  journey.  In  addition,  he 
advised  that,  for  business  reasons,  he  should 
be  named  with  Barbara  as  a  grantee. 

Bexar  looked  askance  at  this  proposition. 
He  wanted  the  claim  to  be  wholly  Barbara's. 
But  as  Barbara  offered  no  objection  he  silently 
submitted,  and  the  claim  was  given  to  (£  Roger 
Hayes  Timberly  and  Barbara  Timberly  his 
wife."  Roger  drew  up  the  paper,  and  that 
there  might  be  no  error  of  legal  formality  he 
brought  in  a  notary  who  lived  several  miles 
away  to  witness  Bexar's  clumsy  signature  and 
affix  to  the  document  a  notarial  seal. 

Whether  or  not  Barbara  approved  of  all  this 
Bexar  could  not  tell.  Sometimes  he  fancied 
she  did  not.  At  the  outset  he  thought  she 


12 


The  Golden  Fleece 

was  going  to  offer  a  protest ;  but  if  she  had 
such  an  intention  Roger's  influence  kept  her 
silent. 

The  next  morning  Bexar  was  ready  to 
depart.  Barbara  stood  in  the  stiff  wind  by  the 
side  of  the  buckboard,  clutching  nervously  at 
her  sun-bonnet  while  Bexar  and  Roger  hitched 
up  the  bronchos.  There  was  a  suspicion  of 
tears  in  her  gray  eyes. 

"  Good-bye  !  "  said  Bexar,  wringing  the  hand 
of  each  and  choking  visibly.  "  May  y'  never 
be  in  need,  as  I  was ;  but  if  sich  hard  luck 
should  ever  come  t'  yeh,  may  y'  find  frien's 
as  good.  I  dunno  how  t'  wish  y1  anything 
better.  On'y,  I  hope  th't  claim  '11  make  y' 
rich." 

Then  he  turned  the  bronchos  into  the  trail 
and  drove  swiftly  away  as  if  he  feared  that  his 
heart  would  fail  him.  At  the  farthest  rise  he 
twisted  about  in  his  seat  and  waved  a  hand  in 
farewell ;  then  the  buckboard  rolled  down  the 
slope  and  he  passed  from  their  sight  forever. 

Somehow,  when  Barbara  went  back  into 
the  house  the  rooms  seemed  to  have  lost 
something,  and  she  felt  a  vague  and  strange 
loneliness. 

"  I  declare,  Barbara,  if  you  have  n't  been 
crying !  "  said  Roger,  with  some  surprise,  as 

13 


Barbara 

he    came    in   a   few    moments    later.     "  Hope 
you  did  n't  fall  in  love  with  the  old  chap  !  " 

He  advanced  and  kissed  her,  smoothed  back 
her  hair,  and  took  a  seat  at  her  side. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  intend  to  do?" 
was  his  question.  "  I  'm  going  to  Cripple 
Creek.  I  've  been  wanting  to  see  the  mines 
and  the  mountains,  you  know,  and  I  can  kill 
two  birds  with  one  stone,  —  make  a  study  of 
the  mines  and  see  if  that  claim  is  worth  any 
thing." 

She  looked  up  quickly,  a  sudden  pain  at  her 
heart. 

"  And  leave  me  here  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  asked  gayly.  "  I  '11  not 
be  gone  a  great  while.  Two  weeks  at  the 
farthest.  Of  course  I  'd  be  glad  to  have  you 
go  too,  if  it  were  possible.  But  we  're  pretty 
short  of  money,  you  know." 

Until  that  moment  Barbara  had  not  realized 
how  Roger's  active  imagination  had  been  fired 
by  Bexar's  talks.  It  is  true  she  had  observed 
the  eagerness  with  which  he  had  put  his  ques 
tions,  but  he  had  always  shown  a  feverish  in 
terest  in  any  subject  that  promised  new  material 
for  literary  work. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  that  Roger's 
thoughtlessness  had  touched  her.  She  knew 

14 


The  Golden  Fleece 

he  did  not  mean  to  be  cruel,  but  he  was  self- 
centred  and  self-sufficient.  She  was  begin 
ning  to  have  a  feeling  that  he  loved  himself 
and  his  art  more  than  he  did  anything  else  in 
the  world  —  more  than  he  loved  her.  She  was 
beginning  to  see,  too,  that  he  was  often  domi 
nated  by  his  impulses  and  by  a  love  of  change, 
and  this,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he  was 
a  hard  worker  and  a  hard  student. 

When,  shortly  after  their  marriage,  they  had 
moved  to  these  semi-arid  plains  and  home- 
steaded  a  land  claim,  the  impelling  motive  had 
been  Roger's  inherent  unrest,  coupled  with  a 
romantic  longing  for  the  freedom  of  the  wide 
frontier,  quite  as  much  as  it  had  been  the  advice 
of  the  physician  who  had  solemnly  thumped 
his  lungs  and  told  him  that  he  needed  a  dryer 
climate  and  that  Indiana  was  not  good  for  him. 
As  to  how  the  change  might  affect  Barbara 
or  be  regarded  by  her,  that  had  been  a  con 
sideration  wholly  secondary.  At  the  time, 
a  momentary  harboring  of  such  a  thought 
would  have  seemed  rankest  treason  to  Bar 
bara.  Even  now  it  was  an  undefined  feeling 
rather  than  knowledge. 

Roger  softly  patted  her  tanned  cheeks,  which 
not  even  the  trying  winds  of  Western  Kansas 
could  rob  of  their  beauty,  and  begged  her  to 

'5 


Barbara 

be  a  woman  and  to  look  at  the  matter  in  a 
sensible  light.  He  did  not  know  how  much 
he  was  asking  of  her.  If  his  finances  had  jus 
tified,  he  would  have  been  glad  to  take  her  into 
the  mountains  with  him,  and  would  have  en 
joyed  with  her  the  new  scenes  and  the  novel 
experiences  thus  to  be  gained. 

He  had  thought  the  matter  out,  and  had 
reached  the  conclusion  that  he  could  not  afford 
it.  He  purposed  to  economize  personally  in 
every  way  and  literally  to  rough  it,  accepting 
hardships  and  close  living  as  necessities.  This 
was  something  which  Barbara  could  not  be 
expected  to  do. 

He  explained  all  this  as  he  talked,  setting 
aside  one  objection  after  another,  until  there 
was  nothing  left  on  which  she  could  hang  a 
protest,  except  the  loneliness  of  the  claim  life 
and  the  depression  she  felt  at  the  thought  of 
their  separation. 

"  It  isn't  as  if  I  was  to  be  gone  a  long  time," 
he  urged.  "  I  don't  doubt  I  can  be  back  in  a 
couple  of  weeks  easily,  but  we  '11  say  ten  days 
for  the  outside  limit,  instead  of  two  weeks. 
I  '11  promise  to  be  gone  not  longer  than  ten 
days,  no  matter  what  happens,  for  I  '11  be  quite 
as  anxious  to  get  home  as  you  will  be  to  have 
me  back.  We  '11  arrange  to  have  one  of  the 

16 


The  Golden  Fleece 

Tilford  girls  come  over  and  stay  with  you  of 
nights,  and  you  '11  not  be  half  as  lonesome  as 
you  think." 

What  could  she  say  further  ?  Roger  was 
resolved  to  go,  and  all  the  arguments  she  could 
heap  up  would  have  been  powerless  to  hold  him. 
So  she  made  the  best  of  it ;  and  that  afternoon 
she  drove  with  him  over  to  Tilford's,  their 
nearest  neighbor,  three  miles  away,  to  see 
about  getting  one  of  the  girls  to  stay  with  her. 

Roger  was  in  a  very  happy  and  hopeful 
mood  that  evening.  Together  they  packed 
his  valise  for  the  journey,  and  he  gave  her  out 
of  his  purse  the  small  amount  of  money  he 
thought  she  would  need  during  his  absence, 
putting  the  rest  away  in  his  pocket. 

Barbara  drove  Roger  to  town  the  next  morn 
ing,  and,  cheered  by  his  high  spirits,  she  became 
almost  joyous.  She  liked  to  handle  the  reins, 
and  was  never  so  contented  as  when  spinning 
over  the  level  prairie  trail,  with  the  rattling 
buggy  wheels  and  the  tattoo  of  pony  hoofs 
making  merry  music.  The  day  was  almost 
perfect.  For  once  the  winds  had  forgotten  to 
blow.  The  heavens  were  an  azure  dome.  It 
was  long  before  the  details  of  that  morning 
drive  to  Paragon  faded  from  Barbara's  memory. 

They  had  started  somewhat  late,  and  the 
17 


Barbara 

Denver-bound  train  on  the  Santa  Fe  was  due 
as  they  rolled  into  the  wide  sandy  street  leading 
to  the  station  and  along  which  all  the  business 
houses  and  restaurants  were  ranged.  They 
had  no  intimate  acquaintances  in  the  town,  and 
there  had  never  been  anything  in  its  rawness 
and  newness  to  win  Barbara's  regard.  The 
boastful  self-assertiveness  of  the  name,  which 
she  believed  indicated  a  characteristic  quality 
of  many  of  its  principal  citizens,  impressed  her 
unpleasantly. 

Roger  assisted  her  to  alight ;  and  when  he 
had  tied  the  ponies  to  a  hitching  rack  and  had 
taken  his  valise  out  of  the  buggy  they  walked 
together  into  the  station.  The  arrivals  and 
departures  of  trains  were  numbered  with 
Paragon's  most  interesting  events,  and  a  crowd 
of  people  now  thronged  the  platform  waiting 
to  see  the  west-bound  come  in.  Among  these 
was  a  groceryman  of  whom  Roger  had  made 
frequent  purchases,  who,  observing  Roger  and 
Barbara  standing  apart  from  the  others  with  the 
valise  at  their  feet,  bustled  forward  and  spoke 
a  few  words  to  them. 

The  train  had  already  whistled  and  was  in 
sight ;  a  few  moments  later  it  bore  down  on 
the  station,  rushing  and  roaring  in  a  cloud 
of  dust,  and  came  to  a  wheezing  stop. 

18 


The  Golden  Fleece 

"  Be  a  good  girl  and  don't  cry  ! "  Roger 
urged,  kissing  Barbara  and  picking  up  his 
valise.  "  Remember  I  '11  be  back  in  ten  days 
sure,  and  sooner  if  I  can." 

The  train  made  but  a  brief  stop  and  the  bell 
was  already  clanging. 

"  Good-bye ! "  she  whispered,  making  a 
brave  effort  to  hide  her  tears  as  he  hurried 
to  the  steps  of  the  nearest  coach. 

He  stood  on  the  platform  to  wave  her  a 
final  adieu ;  and  she  saw  him  standing  thus 
until  the  train  turned  the  bend  and  was  lost  to 
sight  behind  a  projection  of  the  sand  hills. 


CHAPTER  II 

WAITING 

NOW  that  Roger  was  actually  gone,  Bar 
bara  tried  to  bring  to  her  support  all 
of  her  mental  courage,  and  because  of  her 
natural  cheerfulness  she  succeeded  in  banishing 
temporarily  her  sense  of  deep  depression.  She 
returned  to  the  buggy,  fed  the  ponies  some 
shelled  oats  which  were  in  a  bag  under  the  seat, 
then  sought  a  restaurant,  feeling  that  she  needed 
physical  as  well  as  mental  strength. 

Nevertheless,  the  long  drive  home  was 
wearisome  and  depressing.  The  sun  had  grown 
bright  and  hot,  and  a  wind  which  had  risen  in 
the  northwest,  and  which  she  had  to  face,  so 
increased  in  strength  as  she  drove  on  that  she 
lowered  the  buggy  top  to  take  the  strain  off  the 
ponies,  and  sat  in  the  sun,  unshaded  by  so 
much  as  an  umbrella.  The  settlers'  houses 
were  few  and  far  between,  and  the  only  person 
she  passed  was  the  star  route  mail  carrier  jog 
ging  along  in  his  cart  with  the  mail  bags  from 
Plains  City. 


20 


Waiting 

The  nimble-footed  ponies  covered  the  dis 
tance  with  great  rapidity,  making  the  buggy 
wheels  sing  in  a  way  that  was  very  exhilarat 
ing.  As  Barbara  drew  near  home,  her  thoughts 
were  still  with  Roger,  whom  she  now  pictured 
as  speeding  over  the  plains  of  Eastern  Colorado. 
The  sight  of  the  house  brought  memories  of 
Bexar  also.  But  for  Bexar,  whom  she  had 
pitied  and  whom  she  had  come  to  like  so  much, 
Roger  would  now  be  at  home  with  her  instead 
of  hurrying  to  the  wild  scenes  of  the  mountains. 
Yet  she  could  but  think  kindly  of  Bexar. 

"  If  there  should  be  anything  in  that  claim, 
we  will  be  very  generous  with  Bexar,"  was  her 
thought. 

Then  she  began  to  dream  roseate  dreams, 
all  of  which  it  seemed  to  her  might  come  true 
if  the  claim  should  prove  to  be  of  value.  For 
one  thing,  that  would  probably  induce  Roger 
to  leave  forever  this  lonesome  life  of  the  plains 
and  throw  himself  into  scenes  of  business 
activity,  where  there  were  people  to  be  met 
and  known  and  something  of  life  to  be  seen 
and  lived,  even  if  it  were  new  and  crude. 

As  Barbara  pictured  this  other  life  to  her 
self,  there  came  back  to  her  their  talks  and 
their  plans  when  the  dream  of  this  home  on 
the  plains  had  not  yet  become  a  reality.  She 

21 


Barbara 

recalled,  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday,  her  first 
sight  of  this  "  claim  "  in  this  new  land.  She 
and  Roger  had  driven  out  to  it  from  Paragon 
in  a  prairie  schooner.  The  hood  of  the 
schooner  had  been  pushed  back  for  purposes 
of  sight-seeing,  and  she  and  Roger  had  sat 
together,  happy  as  children,  on  the  high  spring 
seat.  She  could  hear  him  talking  again  in  his 
old  enthusiastic  way,  and  she  could  remember 
just  how  the  land  had  looked  when  neither 
house,  stable,  corral,  nor  fence  had  yet  appeared 
on  it. 

Something  like  a  smile  of  contentment  and 
pleasure  came  to  Barbara's  thoughtful  face  as 
these  recollections  crowded  in  upon  her.  She 
seemed  to  see  again  the  soft  emerald  tint  of 
spring  that  had  been  so  noticeable  in  the  gray 
and  dun  of  the  buffalo  and  gramma  grasses. 
A  red-winged  blackbird,  tipping  and  tilting  on 
a  tall  weed,  had  sung  as  if  his  little  heart  were 
bursting  with  the  pure  joy  of  existence  —  sung 
them  a  welcome  to  their  new  home !  The 
winds  had  been  soft  that  day,  the  sky  a  deep 
and  unfathomable  blue,  and  the  whole  universe 
odorous  of  springing  flowers. 

"  And  we  have  been  very,  very  happy  here," 
she  said  to  herself;  "  very  happy,  in  spite  of 
the  loneliness  ;  and  if  Roger  has  ever  seemed 

22 


Waiting 

selfish  or  a  bit  cross  at  times,  it  was  because  his 
work  is  so  trying  and  makes  him  so  nervous. 
I  'm  not  sure  but  I  should  be  glad  to  have  him 
go  into  something  else,  if  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  —  literary  work  is  so  wearing  !  " 

In  spite  of  the  speed  of  the  untiring  West 
ern  ponies  the  time  was  mid-afternoon  when 
Barbara  reached  home.  Everything  looked  so 
abandoned  and  desolate,  now  that  Roger  was 
gone,  that  she  had  a  hard  fight  to  keep  up  her 
spirits.  To  assist  herself  in  this  she  occupied 
her  time  with  housework,  with  the  ponies, 
with  the  cow  and  the  chickens,  and  with  some 
copying  which  Roger  had  left  for  her  to  do. 

Everything  that  she  did,  everything  that  she 
saw,  everything  that  she  touched,  made  her 
think  of  Roger.  She  remembered  how  he  had 
built  the  little  stable  ;  and  how,  now  and  then, 
just  to  please  herself  and  to  be  in  his  company, 
she  had  held  up  some  boards  while  he  nailed 
them  into  place.  The  stable  was  a  flimsy  little 
structure,  clumsily  put  together,  but  it  was 
Roger's  work  and  hers,  even  to  the  laying  up 
of  the  tiers  of  heavy  sod  walls. 

The  house  was  much  better  —  the  best  to 
be  seen  within  a  dozen  miles,  though  it  would 
have  seemed  mean  and  poor  anywhere  else. 
It  had  been  erected  by  a  carpenter  from  Para- 

23 


Barbara 

gon,  and  contained  the  only  brick  chimney 
thereabout.  Though  there  were  but  three 
little  rooms,  they  were  ample  for  all  their 
needs,  and  both  within  and  without,  the  house 
was  palatial  compared  with  those  of  other  set 
tlers,  whose  homes  were  either  rude  dugouts 
or  structures  of  sod  and  rough  boards.  And 
this  had  been  their  home — her  home  and 
Roger's  ! 

She  had  come  with  Roger  to  that  home  from 
a  happy  girlhood,  which  had  held  but  one 
shadow,  so  far  as  she  could  remember,  and  that 
was  the  death  of  her  mother,  which  had  left  her 
without  a  relative  in  the  world.  But  even  then 
she  had  Roger's  love  to  cheer  and  comfort  her 
—  Roger  who  had  been  her  schoolmate,  and 
then  her  lover,  and  was  now  her  husband. 

She  took  pride  in  the  fact  that  both  were  of 
good  stock.  In  her  own  veins  flowed  the  blood 
of  early  English  cavaliers  who  had  crowded 
into  the  colony  of  Virginia,  many  of  them  hav 
ing,  in  addition  to  their  titles  and  their  stainless 
names,  nothing  but  their  good  swords  and  their 
brave  hearts.  Though  Roger  was  born  also 
in  Indiana,  he  was  of  old  Dutch  descent,  his 
ancestors  having  been  among  the  first  settlers 
of  New  York.  She  had  joked  him  sometimes, 
when  he  was  in  a  pleasant  mood,  about  their 

24 


Waiting 

high  origin,  and  their  present  humble  position 
as  "  claim  holders "  in  the  wild  West ;  but 
Roger  did  not  take  a  joke  easily,  and  had  usu 
ally  insisted  that  they  were  doing  now  what 
their  illustrious  progenitors  had  done  in  times 
gone  by,  —  a  thing  considered  so  noble  and 
even  glorious  as  we  look  back  on  it,  but  which 
when  crystallized  into  actual  fact  in  the  actual 
present  is  too  often  thought  to  be  ignoble  and 
unworthy  of  a  man  of  ambition  and  refinement. 

The  wind  lulled  at  the  approach  of  sunset. 
Barbara  walked  out  to  the  little  chicken-coops 
of  sod  which  she  and  Roger  had  fashioned, 
and  to  which  the  clucking  mothers  were  now 
gathering  their  downy  broods,  and  while  the 
chickens  pecked  at  the  wet  meal  which  she 
threw  to  them  she  feasted  her  eyes  and  imagi 
nation  on  the  glory  of  the  western  sky  where 
the  sun  was  sinking. 

"  Such  color  !  "  was  her  thought.  "  Gold 
and  crimson,  silver,  sapphire  and  vermilion, 
and  I  don't  know  what  else.  I  'm  sure  I 
never  beheld  such  sunsets  as  are  to  be  seen  on 
these  plains  of  Kansas.  The  sky  is  fairly  on 
fire.  This  is  a  beautiful  country,  and  I  don't 
wonder  that  Roger  likes  it,  and  I  'm  a  silly  and 
selfish  girl  to  ever  make  him  unhappy  by  any 
expression  of  dissatisfaction." 

25 


Barbara 

Slowly  the  glowing  colors  faded  out  of  the 
sky.  Out  in  the  West  somewhere,  where  the 
gold  had  shone  like  a  brilliant  shield,  was 
Roger ;  and  out  there,  too,  was  that  wonder 
ful  claim  of  Bexar's,  which  might  make  them 
rich,  might  bring  them  gold  as  bright  as  that 
which  had  gleamed  in  the  sky.  The  promise 
seemed  at  the  moment  so  real,  and  so  beauti 
ful  was  the  sunset  into  which  she  fancied  Roger 
to  be  speeding,  that  the  dying  of  the  colors 
saddened  her. 

Shortly  after  sunset  one  of  Tilford's  little 
boys  appeared,  riding  on  a  saddleless  pony, 
and  announced  that  his  sister  was  ill  and  could 
not  come  over  to  stay  with  Barbara  that  night. 
At  the  same  time  he  brought  an  invitation  for 
her  to  spend  the  night  at  their  house,  "  if  she 
felt  afraid." 

There  was  something  in  the  boy's  tone 
which  brought  back  to  Barbara  an  unpleas 
ant  recollection  of  some  of  the  laughter  which 
Roger  had  indulged  in  over  her  timidity.  Was 
she  afraid  to  stay  alone  ?  As  a  rule,  the  women 
of  the  plains,  such  of  them  as  she  had  met, 
were  not  afraid;  staying  at  home  many  lonely 
nights,  while  their  husbands  were  away  freight 
ing  or  plowing  distant  "  timber  claims  "  to  ob 
tain  a  little  needed  money.  Barbara  recalled 

26 


Waiting 

this  fact,  and  decided  that  she  could  be  as 
courageous,  and  so  sent  word  to  the  Tilfords 
that  she  was  not  afraid  to  stay  alone. 

When  the  boy  was  gone  Barbara  took 
Roger's  shotgun  out  of  its  corner  and  picked 
from  his  cartridge  box  some  loaded  shells. 
She  selected  two  that  were  marked  "  B  "  on 
the  wads,  knowing  that  these  were  loaded  with 
buckshot  and  were  intended  for  antelope  hunt 
ing.  These  she  put  into  the  gun,  which  Roger 
had  shown  her  how  to  manipulate,  but  drew 
them  out  and  substituted  charges  of  bird  shot 
when  she  reflected  that  these  would  be  as  effec 
tive  in  scaring  away  intruders  and  that  it  would 
be  a  dreadful  thing  to  kill  any  one  even  unin 
tentionally. 

The  Northern  Cheyennes,  held  against  their 
will  in  the  western  part  of  the  Indian  Terri 
tory,  had  but  a  few  years  before  broken  from 
their  reservation  and  made  a  desperate  attempt 
to  reach  their  old  homes  and  hunting-grounds 
in  Dakota.  They  had  marked  their  trail  across 
the  Sunflower  State  in  fire  and  blood,  and  had 
carried  into  temporary  captivity  the  two  small 
daughters  of  a  lonely  claim-holder,  after  mur 
dering  the  other  members  of  the  family. 

The  recollection  of  this  true  story,  which 
she  had  heard  from  the  Tilfords,  came  to  Bar 

27 


Barbara 

bara  now,  and  made  her  so  nervous  that,  feel 
ing  she  could  not  sleep,  she  sat  up  until  a  late 
hour,  reading,  with  the  light  burning  brightly  ; 
then  at  last,  with  the  shotgun  in  reach  of  her 
hand  and  Roger's  photograph  under  her  pil 
low,  she  sobbed  herself  to  sleep,  feeling  all  the 
while  that  she  was  very  weak  and  foolish. 

So  bright  was  the  world  the  next  morning, 
however,  that  she  arose  with  the  brave  determi 
nation  to  think  of  nothing  but  Roger's  return 
and  of  the  pleasure  which  that  would  give  her. 
In  spite  of  this  and  of  the  work  with  which  she 
busied  herself  constantly,  the  time  passed  but 
slowly. 

Three  days  went  by  before  the  mail  carrier, 
who  passed  within  a  mile  of  the  house,  brought 
anything  from  Roger.  It  was  only  a  postal, 
written  at  Pueblo  the  first  day  of  his  journey. 
Two  more  days  dragged  by  ;  then  there  came 
a  letter  bearing  the  Cripple  Creek  post-mark, 
which  informed  her  of  Roger's  arrival  in  that 
booming  mining  camp. 

Here  Roger's  communications  ceased.  Daily 
Barbara  watched  with  straining  eyes  for  the 
coming  of  the  mail  carrier,  and  when  he  ap 
peared  in  sight  she  walked  out  to  the  trail 
to  meet  him,  hoping  for  a  letter.  The  mail 
brought  her  nothing  but  some  papers. 

28 


Waiting 

When  five  more  days  had  passed,  bringing 
the  tenth  after  Roger's  departure,  and  no 
further  word  had  come  from  him,  Barbara 
hitched  up  the  ponies  and  drove  to  Paragon. 
She  felt  that  through  some  error  or  misunder 
standing  the  letters  might  have  been  withheld. 
Besides,  this  was  the  day  on  which  Roger  had 
promised  to  return. 

When  she  visited  the  post  office  she  found 
that  there  had  been  no  error.  No  letters  had 
come  for  her  from  Roger,  though  she  was  given 
one  that  would  have  made  his  heart  glad,  for 
it  was  from  a  publisher,  and  contained  a  check 
for  a  hundred  dollars  for  some  short  stories. 

Barbara  stood  on  the  railway  platform  with 
the  crowd  when  the  Western  mail  rolled  up 
to  the  station  ;  and  when  Roger  did  not  alight, 
a  sickening,  sinking  sense  of  impending  ill 
took  possession  of  her.  Though  she  had 
written  every  day,  she  now  wrote  him  another 
letter  and  mailed  it.  Then,  overcome  by  the 
wildness  of  her  anxiety,  she  sent  a  questioning 
telegram  to  the  marshal  of  Cripple  Creek. 
The  reply  came  in  due  time : 

"  R.  H.  Timberly  registered  at  Placer 
Hotel  and  left  grip/' 

This  was  so  unsatisfactory  that  Barbara 
wired  again  ;  but,  though  she  waited  till  a  late 

29 


Barbara 

hour,  she  received  no  answer.  It  was  dark 
before  she  reached  home.  The  picketed  cow 
was  lowing  for  water,  and  the  chickens  had 
gone  into  their  coops  and  climbed  to  their 
perches  without  their  usual  feed.  Barbara  was 
so  low-spirited  that  her  little  home  looked 
desolate  and  lonely. 

The  next  day  the  mail  carrier  brought  a 
telegram  from  the  Cripple  Creek  marshal.  It 
had  come  after  her  departure  from  Paragon, 
and  had  been  sent  to  the  post  office,  as  she 
had  no  town  address.  It  brought  the  informa 
tion  that  Roger  had  not  been  seen  for  several 
days,  and  his  whereabouts  were  unknown  to 
the  people  of  the  Placer  Hotel.  Barbara's 
determination  was  taken  instantly.  She  would 
go  to  Cripple  Creek  herself  and  learn  what 
terrible  mishap  had  befallen  Roger. 

Preparatory  to  this  she  hitched  up  the 
ponies  and  drove  across  the  three  miles  of 
intervening  trailless  buffalo-grass  sward  to 
Tilford's. 

Tilford  was  putting  in  some  late  corn  with  a 
sod  planter  as  Barbara  reined  in  at  the  side  of 
the  plowed  space,  which,  though  it  was  of  con 
siderable  size,  looked  like  a  narrow  brown 
ribbon  in  the  midst  of  those  leagues  of  grass. 
He  stopped  in  his  work  and  walked  toward 

30 


Waiting 

the  buggy,  rightly  divining  that  she  wished  to 
speak  with  him.  His  swart  face  was  bearded, 
and  puckered  with  wrinkles  that  radiated  fan- 
like  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  He  bore 
the  sod  planter  in  his  gnarled  hands  and  bowed 
his  shoulders  as  he  hobbled  over  the  newly 
turned  sod. 

"  Mornin' !  mornin'  !  "  he  said,  his  ancient 
face  beaming.  "  Fine  weather  we  're  havin', 
but  a  bit  dryish.  If  the  wind  would  on'y 
swing  into  the  south  fer  a  few  days  and  blow 
good  and  hard  it  'd  bring  rain,  but  it  hangs  to 
the  north'ards,  an'  that 's  a  bad  sign." 

Barbara  smiled  back  into  his  withered  honest 
face  in  spite  of  her  thoughts  of  Roger. 

"  You  seem  to  be  putting  in  a  good  big 
crop,  Mr.  Tilford,"  she  observed,  trying  to 
take  an  interest  in  the  things  that  so  interested 
the  old  man.  "I  came  to  —  " 

"  If  I  was  younger  !  "  Tilford  cut  in. 
"  'T  ain't  nothin'  to  what  I  used  to  put  in 
back  in  Eastern  Kansas.  They  hain't  but 
twenty  acres  of  this,  and  back  there  I  Ve  had 
in  more'n  two  hundred  acres,  to  say  nothin' 
of  other  stuff.  But  I  ain't  got  no  help  now 
but  my  boys,  an'  boys  ain't  the  workers  they 
was  when  I  was  young.  Them  ponies  o' 
yourn  air  too  light  to  do  much  plowin',  I 

31 


Barbara 

reckon  ?  I  allus  think  it 's  best  t'  git  a  leetle 
heavier  horse ;  he  kin  go  nighabout  as  fast 
as  ponies,  an'  you  kin  do  heavier  work  with 
him." 

"  Yes  ;  I  suppose  you  're  right,  Mr.  Tilford," 
she  said,  unable  to  hide  her  nervousness.  "  I 
came  over  to  ask  some  favors  of  you.  I 
have  n't  heard  a  word  from  Roger  for  almost 
a  week  now,  and  he  promised  to  write  to  me 
every  day.  He  promised,  too,  that  he  would 
return  yesterday.  I  drove  to  town  to  meet 
him  and  to  see  if  there  were  any  letters  from 
him.  He  didn't  come,  and  there  were  no 
letters.  Then  I  telegraphed  to  the  Cripple 
Creek  marshal,  and  could  learn  nothing  of 
him." 

Tilford,  leaning  on  the  sod  planter,  was 
looking  earnestly  at  her.  A  smile  broke  over 
his  puckered  features. 

"  'T  ain't  nothin'  t'  worry  about,  Mrs. 
Timberly,"  he  urged.  "  That 's  a  big  coun 
try  out  there  and  the  days  hike  by  mighty 
fast  when  a  man  is  seein'  new  sights.  He  's 
been  busy,  I  reckon ;  an'  he  '11  be  back  all 
right." 

He  took  out  a  battered  silver  watch  and 
consulted  it. 

"  May  come  on  the  evenin'  train  !  Jist  you 
32 


Waiting 

let  up  worryin',  Mrs.  Timberly.     Likely  he  '11 
come  drivin'  home  this  eveninY' 

Barbara  could  not  be  convinced  so  easily. 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so,"  she  said,  "  but 
you  see  I  know  Roger  better  than  you  do. 
He  would  have  written,  if  something  had  not 
occurred  to  keep  him  from  it.  I  know  that 
he  is  in  trouble  of  some  kind  —  perhaps  sick, 
or  lost  his  way  in  the  hills." 

Tilford  shook  his  head  in  disbelief. 

"He'll  be  drivin'  home  to-night  or  to- 
morrer." 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so,  but  I  can't,  Mr. 
Tilford ;  so  I  'm  going  to  Cripple  Creek  my 
self.  And  that's  why  I  drove  over  —  to  see 
if  you  would  look  after  our  livestock  while 
I  'm  away."  I  hope  I  won't  have  to  be  gone 
long." 

"  I  can't  believe  that  anything  has  happened 
to  him/'  Tilford  insisted  ;  "  but  o'  course  we  '11 
look  after  your  things.  We  kin  bring  'em 
over  here  fer  that  matter  and  keep  'em  fer  ye. 
But  I  reckon  you  'd  better  talk  to  maw  about 
it  —  'bout  your  goin',  I  mean;  she'll  think 
jist  as  I  do." 

This  was  what  Barbara  desired  —  to  have  a 
talk  with  Mrs.  Tilford.     She  turned  the  ponies 
aside  from  the  plowing,  cramping  the   buggy 
3  33 


Barbara 

back  so  that  the  old  man  could  get  in  by  her 

side. 

"  No,  thankee,  I  '11  walk  ;  't  ain't  fur." 
Then  he  dropped  the  sod  planter  to  the 
ground  and  set  off  across  the  plowed  strip, 
shuffling  along  with  his  shoulders  bent  and  his 
arms  swinging,  while  Barbara  drove  on  round 
to  the  house. 

It  was  a  typical  "  claim  "  house  of  the  West 
ern  plains,  half  dugout  and  half  boards,  and 
was  set  in  the  southern  slope  of  a  low  hill, 
that  in  a  hilly  country  would  not  have  been 
considered  a  hill  at  all,  but  which  on  those 
plane-like  levels  seemed  to  be  an  elevation  of 
considerable  prominence. 

Mrs.  Tilford  noted  the  approaching  buggy, 
at  the  same  time  sighting  her  husband,  who 
had  worked  out  of  the  plowed  ground  and  was 
now  walking  quickly  along  over  the  crisp, 
short  grass.  She  came  to  the  door,  puffy  and 
rotund,  like  some  huge  animal  rising  out  of  its 
underground  lair,  and  stood  curiously  in  the 
doorway,  wiping  her  hands  on  her  gingham 
apron. 

Mrs.  Tilford  was  one  of  the  women  of  the 
plains  who  was  "  not  afraid."  At  the  side 
of  the  doorway,  leaning  against  the  low  board 
wall,  was  a  stout  club  or  cudgel,  her  inseparable 

34 


Waiting 

companion  whenever  she  had  occasion  to  walk 
abroad.  This  club  was  her  rattlesnake  killer, 
for  the  grass  of  the  plains  abounded  in  rattle 
snakes,  and  her  fearless  prowess  in  the  work 
of  exterminating  these  pests  was  shown  by  the 
big  gourd  in  the  house  filled  with  rattles  that 
she  had  cut  from  the  tails  of  snakes  she  had 
slain.  Mrs.  Tilford  knew  how  to  load  a  rifle 
and  to  shoot  with  the  marksman-like  accuracy 
of  the  true  plainsman.  She  knew  how  to  plow, 
and  could  turn  a  better  furrow  than  even  Til- 
ford  himself.  The  huge  stack  of  prairie  hay 
out  behind  the  sod  stable  was  chiefly  the  work 
of  her  own  hands,  she  having  driven  the  click 
ing  mowing  machine  day  after  day  in  the  hot 
sun  up  and  down  through  the  tall  slough  grass 
that  grew  abundantly  in  one  of  the  little  valleys. 
In  addition  to  all  this,  she  was  a  neat  house 
keeper,  and,  taking  into  consideration  what  she 
had  to  do  with,  an  excellent  cook. 

Mrs.  Tilford  recognized  Barbara  and  came 
out  to  greet  her,  still  wiping  her  damp,  red  hands 
on  the  gingham  apron.  Her  round,  puffy  face, 
browned  like  leather,  bore  a  welcoming  look. 

cc  I  '11  have  one  o'  the  boys  put  away  the 
ponies/'  she  said,  catching  hold  of  the  nearest 
bridle  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  the  ponies 
steady  while  Barbara  dismounted. 

35 


Barbara 

"  No,  I  have  n't  time  to  stay  now,"  said 
Barbara,  still  clutching  the  reins  in  her  slender 
ungloved  hands.  "  I  may  want  to  come  over 
and  remain  with  you  to-night,  though." 

"  I  've  been  thinkin'  that  mebby  you  was 
gittin'  a  mite  lonesome  over  there  by  yourself," 
vouched  Mrs.  Tilford.  "  I  told  Mr.  Tilford 
only  yisterday  that  I  reckoned  we  'd  better 
send  one  of  the  girls  over  to  set  with  you  a  bit 
of  daytimes ;  but  we  Ve  had  so  much  to  do, 
and  the  girls  has  been  so  busy.  It 's  a  lot  of 
work,  Mrs.  Timberly,  to  git  things  to  goin'  in 
a  new  home." 

Tilford  had  come  up  and  stood  with  his 
hands  planted  on  his  hips,  his  big  hat  flapping 
back  from  his  face  in  the  breeze. 

"  She  says  't  she  's  goin'  to  Cripple  Crick," 
he  explained.  "  It 's  a  fool  notion,  I  think, 
but  she  's  set  on  it.  Of  course  we  '11  look  after 
her  stuff,  if  she  must  go  ;  but  my  'pinion  is 
that  her  husband  '11  be  along  d'reckly.  Some 
bizness  er  other  is  keepin'  him.  That's  what 
I  said  to  her,  maw ;  but  she  won't  believe  it." 

Barbara  had  to  retell  her  story,  and  re-ex 
pressed  her  determination  of  going  to  the 
mountains,  Mrs.  Tilford  listening  eagerly  but 
undisturbed.  She  agreed  with  her  husband 
that  it  was  "  a  foolish  piece  o'  work ; "  but, 

36 


Waiting 

when  Barbara  could  not  be  dissuaded,  both 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tilford  promised  to  attend 
faithfully  to  the  needs  of  the  Timberly  live 
stock. 

"  And  come  over  an*  stay  with  us  to-night/* 
Mrs.  Tilford  begged.  "  Mebby  you  '11  think 
better  of  it  by  mornin',  and  mebby  your  man 
will  be  home  by  that  time,  and  you  won't  think 
that  you  haf  to  go." 

Barbara  thanked  them  and  drove  homeward, 
moaning  over  and  over  to  herself: 

"  Oh,  Roger  !  Roger  !  What  has  become 
of  you  ?  what  has  become  of  you  ? " 


37 


CHAPTER  III 

IN   THE   GOLD    CAMP    OF   THE   ROCKIES 

BARBARA  returned  to  Tilford's  that  even 
ing  and  spent  a  wretched  night  in  the 
stuffy,  crowded  quarters  of  the  settler's  humble 
home.  Mrs.  Tilford  was  kind,  and  exerted 
herself  in  cooking,  preparing  many  things, 
insisting  that  if  Barbara  would  only  eat  she 
would  feel  better.  According  to  Mrs.  Til- 
ford's  philosophy,  the  ability  to  devour  pies 
and  huge  dishes  of  gingerbread  was  the  ther 
mometer  which  registered  the  high  degrees  of 
cheerfulness. 

The  next  morning  Tilford  put  his  own  thin 
work  horses  to  his  rattle-trap  spring  wagon, 
saying  that  as  he  had  to  go  to  town  himself  to 
get  some  coal  he  would  take  Barbara  in.  Bar 
bara  recognized  under  this  a  certain  rude  sense 
of  delicacy  which  made  him  wish  to  save  her 
from  the  feeling  of  obligation ;  so,  though  she 
would  have  preferred  to  make  the  journey 
behind  her  own  quick-stepping  ponies,  she 
thanked  him  and  assured  him  that  he  was  very 

38 


In  the  Gold  Camp  of  the  Rockies 

kind  and  that  she  could  never  forget  the  good 
ness  of  himself  and  his  wife  to  her. 

As  they  prepared  to  drive  away,  Mrs.  Til- 
ford  stood  in  the  low  doorway,  that  seemed  so 
like  the  mouth  of  a  cave,  and  repeated  her 
injunctions  to  her  two  boys,  who  were  on  the 
point  of  setting  out  for  the  Timberly  home 
stead,  to  "  Look  well  after  them  things,  mind 
ye  !  "  meaning  the  Timberly  livestock.  Then 
she  kissed  Barbara  in  a  motherly  way,  wiped 
a  tear  from  her  leather-colored  cheek  with  her 
big,  red  hand,  and  stood  waving  a  towel  in 
adieu  until  they  were  well  out  of  sight. 

The  morning  was  as  perfect  as  the  one  on 
which  Roger  had  gone  away.  They  started 
earlier,  however,  for  Tilford's  thin  horses  were 
much  slower  than  the  ponies ;  and,  as  Barbara 
soon  discovered,  the  stiff-backed  wagon  seat 
was  not  so  comfortable  as  the  seat  of  her  own 
springy  buggy. 

Tilford  talked  incessantly  as  he  drove  on, 
possibly  for  the  purpose  of  distracting  Barbara 
from  the  unpleasant  thoughts  that  had  so 
taken  possession  of  her.  In  spite  of  herself 
she  became  interested,  as  he  told  of  the  early 
days  in  Eastern  Kansas,  when  the  Missouri 
"  Border  Ruffians  "  harried  the  wild  frontier. 
He  had  seen  and  talked  with  old  John  Brown 

39 


Barbara 

—  "  Ossawatomie  Brown;"  he  had  fought  with 
the  Free-Soilers  against  Quantrell's  guerillas  ; 
he  had  witnessed  the  sacking  and  burning  of 
Lawrence ;  and    knew    John    Speer,  the    anti- 
slavery   editor,  who   had   a  son    killed  in  the 
Lawrence    massacre   and   whose  printing-press 
and    type  were   thrown   into   the   Kaw    River, 
where  they  probably  rest  to  this  day. 

"  Them  was  great  days,"  he  said,  as  he  flicked 
his  whiplash  at  one  of  the  agile  sand  lizards 
that  seemed  always  on  the  point  of  being 
crushed  by  the  wagon  wheels  yet  always  escaped 
by  the  narrowest  margin.  "  Me  and  Jim  Lane 

—  you  Ve   heard   of  him  ?  —  swum    the   Kaw 
together    onc't    t'    git  away   frum   Quantrell's 
men.     There  was  a  feller  c'd   make  a  speech 
fer  ye  !      Most  wonderful  speaker  I  ever  heerd, 
was  Jim  Lane.      Onc't  when  they  accused  him 
of  killin'  a  man  that  tried  to  jump  his  claim, 

—  an'  I  reckon  he  killed  him,  —  Jim  stood  up 
on  a  dry-goods  box  in  the  streets  o'  Lawrence 
and  made  sich  a  speech  about  Free  Soil  and 
slammed  it  at  the  Mizzouri  men  so  heavy  that 
instid  of  'restin'  him  the  people  was  soon  pack- 
in'  him  round  on  their  shoulders." 

Tilford  sighed  reflectively  and  bit  off  a  chew 
of  tobacco. 

((  Too  bad  about  Jim  !     He  killed  himself 
,  4° 


In  the  Gold  Camp  of  the  Rockies 

—  shot  himself  through  the  head,  after  he'd 
been  to  Congress,  too !  You  can't  never 
tell  what  a  man  's  comin'  to  till  after  he  's 
planted." 

For  almost  five  minutes  he  drove  on  with 
out  saying  a  word,  clucking  now  and  then  at 
his  horses  and  noisily  snapping  his  whiplash. 

"  And  that 's  a  fact !  "  he  continued  abruptly. 
"  I  had  a  thousand  acres  of  land  in  the  Kaw 
valley,  no  gumbo  on  it  nor  nothin',  but  good 
black  soil,  and  now  I  hain't  got  a  thing  but 
that  claim  back  there.  I  went  on  some  notes 
fer  my  neighbors.  I  had  to  pay  the  notes  my 
self,  in  the  end,  and  that  tuck  my  land." 

Barbara  was  moved  to  express  her  com 
miseration. 

"  Yes,  it  was  purty  tough  ;  but  as  long  as 
there  's  life  there  's  hope,  I  says  to  maw ;  and 
she  agreed  with  me,  and  we  come  out  here  to 
try  it  over  ag'in.  There 's  a  woman  fer  you  ! 
No  whinin'  or  snivelin'  about  maw,  there  ain't. 
She  might  have  made  it  hard  fer  me,  too,  when 
we  lost  the  land,  but  she  did  n't." 

Again  he  was  silent ;  then  roused  himself,  as 
if  determined  to  turn  from  these  thoughts. 

"  See  that  off  there  ?  "  he  said,  straightening 
up  and  pointing  with  his  whip.  "  They  don't 
have  any  of  them  back  East,  they  tell  me,  and 


Barbara 

not  often  in  Eastern  Kansas,  though  I  used  to 
see  'em  some  before  the  country  was  so  cut  up 
and  settled." 

There  had  been  no  haze  that  bright  morning, 
and  now  on  every  hand  were  to  be  seen  blue, 
lake-like  illusions.  Barbara  had  already  been 
watching  them,  thinking,  as  usual,  of  Roger, 
who  had  delighted  in  studying  the  mirages  of 
the  plains. 

A  blue  line,  resembling  a  narrow  thread, 
visible  on  their  right,  was  expanding  as  they 
advanced,  growing  wider  and  wider,  until  it  re 
sembled  a  broad  stream. 

"  It 's  very  beautiful,"  said  Barbara. 

"  Purty  hain't  no  name  for  it,"  Tilford  de 
clared.  "  You  '11  see  it  grow  bigger  d'reckly." 

It  continued  to  widen  and  expand,  and  soon 
the  entire  stretch  of  grassy  sea  had  changed 
into  a  crystalline  lake,  from  which  extended 
other  bodies  like  bays  and  rivers. 

"  I  Ve  heerd  of  men  bein'  fooled  by  them 
things,"  Tilford  observed  ;  "  heerd  of  men 
believin'  that  they  was  real  water,  and  follerin' 
'urn  and  follerin'  'um,  hopin'  to  git  a  drink, 
until  they  fell  down  and  died  of  thirst.  Good 
many  stories  ye  hear  ain't  so,  though,  and 
I  Ve  my  doubts  about  them.  I  don't  reckon 
a  reel  sens'ble  man  'd  git  fooled  so  easy." 

42 


In  the  Gold  Camp  of  the  Rockies 

"  But  it  looks  very  much  like  water/'  said 
Barbara.  "  If  one  did  n't  know  !  It  seems  to 
me  I  can  see  the  reflections  of  trees  on  the 
other  bank." 

ic  Jist  weeds/'  said  Tilford.  cc  Looks  like 
little  trees,  though.  They  're  drawed  up  like 
and  made  to  seem  bigger,  but  if  you  '11  look 
clos't  you  kin  see  that  they  're  weeds.  I  Ve 
seen  cattle  and  houses  pictured  that  way,  up 
side  down  in  that  water,  which  ain't  water. 
Did  n't  look  like  houses  ner  cattle,  though  ; 
ner  like  anything  else  I  ever  seen  on  this  earth. 
I  got  a  paper  one  time  with  a  whole  lot  o' 
queer  pictures  in  it.  I  reckon  the  man  that 
made  'em  was  crazy.  Well,  they  looked  like 
them  pictures." 

Thus  Tilford  beguiled  the  way  to  town, 
spicing  the  talk  with  his  quaint  observations, 
until  at  times  Barbara  almost  forgot  the  serious 
nature  of  her  errand. 

On  their  arrival  in  Paragon  she  hastened 
with  eager  feet  to  the  post  office  and  the  tele 
graph  office,  meeting  with  disappointment  at 
each  ;  then,  sure  that  something  terrible  had 
befallen  Roger,  she  went  with  his  publisher's 
check  to  the  local  bank,  where  she  was  known, 
and  after  some  persuasion  she  induced  the 
cashier  to  give  her  bills  for  the  check,  signing 

43 


Barbara 

Roger's  name  and  her  own  beneath  it  on  the 
back  of  the  check. 

Tilford  came  down  to  the  station  and  waited 
there  with  her  after  she  had  purchased  her 
ticket,  until  the  train  from  the  East  came  in. 

"  You  '11  be  comin'  back  to-morrer  er  next 
day,  all  right,  and  with  your  man  with  ye." 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  said,  as  he  clumsily  tried 
to  assist  her  to  the  platform  of  the  coach. 
"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Tilford  ;  you  Ve  been  very 
kind  to  me,  both  you  and  your  wife." 

"  Good-bye,"  he  called,  lifting  his  dust- 
stained  slouchy  hat  as  the  train  started.  "  We  '11 
look  after  your  things  all  right ;  so  ye  need  n't 
worry." 

Having  found  a  seat  in  the  day  coach,  Bar 
bara  had  little  now  to  distract  her  thoughts  from 
Roger,  and  as  a  consequence  her  eagerness  and 
anxiety  increased  greatly.  Though  she  sat  at 
a  window,  turning  from  the  passengers  to  the 
scenery,  she  saw  little  of  the  dull  landscape, 
which  was  brightened  now  and  then  by  the 
vivid  green  of  alfalfa  fields  or  broken  by  ridges 
of  sand-hills.  The  sight  of  the  natural  groves 
of  scraggy  cottonwoods  along  the  Upper  Ar 
kansas  pleased  her,  after  the  treeless  monotony 
of  the  plains.  There  were  some  shade  trees  in 
Paragon,  but  they  were  young  and  small. 

44 


In  the  Gold  Camp  of  the  Rockies 

After  passing  into  Colorado  she  heard  some 
of  the  passengers  talking  of  "  towers  and  tur 
rets,"  and  off  on  the  right  she  beheld,  in  the 
miragy  air,  what  she  at  first  took  to  be  another 
illusion  of  the  mirage.  Broken  walls  there 
were,  with  houses  and  small  towers,  which  the 
deceptive  atmosphere  exaggerated  and  con 
torted  strangely.  Voiceless  and  tenantless,  a 
record  of  the  days  of  terror  and  Indian  raiders, 
they  were  the  crumbling  remains  of  old  Fort 
Lyon. 

These  passed,  Barbara  returned  to  her 
thoughts  of  Roger.  At  Pueblo  she  roused 
herself  and  looked  with  some  interest  at  the 
smelters,  for  from  this  point  Roger  had  sent 
the  postal.  His  postal  and  letter,  the  last 
things  from  his  hands,  rested  now  close  against 
her  heart,  along  with  his  photograph. 

Barbara  had  never  seen  the  mountains 
toward  which  she  was  speeding ;  and  the  blue 
line  on  the  horizon,  pointed  out  now  as  the 
Greenhorn  Range,  as  it  grew  higher  and  higher 
against  the  western  sky,  gave  play  to  her  imag 
ination  and  distraction  to  her  painful  thoughts. 

From  Pueblo  they  ran  toward  Denver,  and, 
when  evening  drew  on,  they  came  finally 
abreast  of  the  massive  and  rugged  front  of 
Cheyenne  Mountain,  with  Pike's  Peak  behind 

45 


Barbara 

it,  tiptoeing  and  shouldering  his  fellows,  but 
almost  invisible.  How  her  heart  fluttered ! 
Somewhere  in  the  mysterious  regions  back  of 
that  giant  she  knew  lay  the  gold  camp  of 
Cripple  Creek. 

Then  she  found  herself  in  Colorado  Springs, 
and  left  the  train  there.  Darkness  was  about 
her  now,  and  she  could  not  see  much  of  the 
brisk  little  city  that  had  apparently  camped  for 
the  night  out  on  the  plains  at  the  base  of  the 
great  mountains. 

Going  into  the  ticket  office,  she  was  in 
formed  that  the  Cripple  Creek  stage  running 
from  Divide  would  not  start  until  nine  o'clock 
the  next  day,  and  that  passengers  for  it  would 
be  taken  up  on  the  Colorado  Midland  train  in 
the  morning.  This  was  a  disappointment,  for 
she  wanted  to  go  on  that  night. 

Helpless  to  do  anything  more,  she  sent 
another  telegram  to  the  Cripple  Creek  marshal, 
and  one  addressed  to  Roger  ;  then  sought  a 
hotel  and  rest.  The  answer  from  the  marshal 
came  that  night,  reiterating  his  statement  that 
Roger's  whereabouts  were  unknown  ;  the  other 
telegram  brought  no  reply. 

Barbara  was  in  such  feverish  haste  to  go  on 
that  she  arrived  at  the  depot  a  full  half-hour 
before  the  train  was  ready  to  start.  It  rolled 

46 


In  the  Gold  Camp  of  the  Rockies 

away  at  last,  bearing  her  past  the  Garden  of 
the  Gods,  with  its  fantastic  rock  forms  ;  past 
little  Manitou,  resting  like  a  gem  at  the  base 
of  Pike's  Peak ;  through  many  tunnels  and  by 
Pike's  Peak  itself,  and  on  and  up,  between 
cliffs  and  through  little  canons,  with  many  a 
curve  and  turn  and  by  many  a  laughing  water 
fall,  until  the  tiny  station  of  Divide  was  reached, 
where  the  stage  for  Cripple  Creek  awaited  the 
coming  of  the  train. 

Barbara  had  never  ridden  in  such  a  vehicle, 
nor  seen  anything  like  it.  By  much  contriv 
ing  she  managed  to  stow  herself  away  inside, 
packed  in  with  a  motley  group  of  men,  all  of 
whom  were  laughing  and  talking  and  seemed 
to  be  in  high  spirits.  There  was  no  other 
woman  in  the  coach. 

The  stage  had  been  used  on  the  Deadwood 
trail,  she  heard  one  of  the  men  say,  and  with  a 
certain  pang  of  misgiving  she  thought  of  the 
money  she  had  in  her  purse  and  of  her  precious 
travelling-bag,  which  had  been  tossed  into  the 
boot  by  the  driver  as  if  it  were  of  no  more 
consequence  than  a  stick  of  wood. 

One  of  the  men  took  out  a  cigar,  but  put  it 
back  in  his  pocket  without  lighting  it  when  he 
noticed  the  evident  refinement  and  beauty  of 
Barbara's  face.  Nearly  all  of  the  passengers, 

47 


Barbara 

as  she  soon  discovered,  were  either  from  Colo 
rado  Springs  or  Denver,  and  were  financially 
interested  in  Cripple  Creek  or  its  mines. 
There  was  much  talk  of  the  "  Pharmacist,"  a 
mining  property  that  was  being  developed  by 
some  druggists,  and  she  heard  of  the  "  Great 
Anaconda,"  and  the  "  Holy  Moses,"  and  of 
a  score  of  other  mines  and  claims.  The  only 
thought  of  these  men  apparently  was  mines 
and  mining,  of  quick  affluence,  of  marvellous 
"strikes  "  of  ore,  of  strange  "  placers  "  on  the 
tops  of  hills,  when  every  one  knows  that  since 
the  days  of  the  California  Argonauts  "  placers  " 
are  only  to  be  looked  for  in  the  beds  of  creeks 
and  rivers. 

The  stage  rolled  on  at  a  rapid  pace,  up  and 
down  hill,  over  smooth  country  and  rough, 
with  a  change  of  horses  now  and  then  ;  and 
then  on  and  on,  by  the  margin  of  a  trout 
stream  that  came  plunging  and  tearing  down 
from  the  mountains,  through  forests  of  aspens 
and  mountain  poplars  and  thick  growths  of 
spruce  and  pine,  all  of  which  were  entrancingly 
beautiful  to  Barbara,  wearied  as  she  was  of  the 
flat,  untimbered  plains. 

The  mountains  were  a  source  of  delight  to 
her.  Off  at  the  left  she  caught  a  glimpse  now 
and  then  of  Pike's  Peak,  with  his  snow-white 

48 


In  the  Gold  Camp  of  the  Rockies 

cap  and  a  great  ruffle  of  fleecy  clouds  about 
his  neck.  There  were  smaller  peaks  every 
where  and  hills  innumerable.  A  smouldering 
forest  fire  still  burned  on  some  high  slopes, 
and  they  passed  miles  of  blackened  forest 
waste,  strewn  with  burned  trees  and  gaunt 
black  stumps,  where  the  fire  had  rioted.  In 
spite  of  it  all  and  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  Bar 
bara's  thought  was  ever  of  Roger. 

They  were  approaching  Cripple  Creek,  she 
at  last  heard  the  men  say,  and  again  her  pulses 
quickened.  The  ride  had  been  long  and  wear 
ing,  notwithstanding  the  wild  beauty  of  the 
scenery  through  which  the  bouncing  old  stage 
coach  had  passed.  A  rough  cabin  in  the  woods 
was  now  and  then  seen,  with  here  and  there  a 
mound  of  yellow  clay  that  made  her  think  of 
a  newly  made  grave.  These  yellow  mounds 
increased  in  number  as  the  coach  drew  nearer 
the  great  mining  camp.  They  spotted  the  hill 
sides  in  every  direction.  Men  who  resembled 
the  clay-colored  laborers  she  had  seen  digging 
in  the  streets  of  cities  were  to  be  seen  amid  the 
trees  and  out  on  the  bare  hills,  engaged  fever 
ishly  in  throwing  up  more  of  these  mounds, 
as  if  they  fancied  there  were  not  already  enough  ; 
toiling  away,  too,  as  though  the  work  must  all 
be  completed  before  nightfall. 
4  49 


Barbara 

The  mounds  marked  "prospect  holes,"  Bar 
bara  heard  one  of  the  passengers  remark,  and 
the  toiling  men  were  "  miners "  and  "  pros 
pectors  "  who  were  hoping  to  "  find  color ;  " 
by  which  she  guessed,  rather  than  knew,  that 
all  of  those  clayed  figures,  wielding  pick  and 
spade,  were  simply  other  Bexars  chasing  the 
gleam  of  gold  over  those  wild  hills. 

"  If  Mr.  Bexar's  claim  is  but  one  of  those, 
I  don't  believe  our  chances  of  getting  rich  are 
very  good ;  there  are  so  many  of  them  !  "  was 
her  thought. 

It  was  past  noon  when  the  stage-coach  rolled 
into  the  famous  gold  camp  of  the  Rockies, 
which  straggled  down  Squaw  Gulch  in  all  the 
newness  and  rawness  of  fresh  paint  and  no 
paint,  with  houses  and  "  shacks,"  tents  and 
lean-tos  of  every  description  imaginable,  as  if 
the  crazy  dream  of  an  insane  architect  had  been 
crystallized  suddenly  into  realization. 

Barbara  caught  her  breath  as  she  de 
scended  with  cramped  limbs  from  the  coach 
and  looked  about.  This  restless  hive,  with  its 
swarm  of  hurrying  humanity  and  its  Babel  of 
sound,  was  Cripple  Creek.  Roger  had  been 
here.  Where  was  he  now? 

Her  first  step  was  to  inquire  her  way  to  the 
Placer  Hotel,  which  she  found  a  decent  hos- 

5° 


In  the  Gold  Camp  of  the  Rockies 

telry.  Behind  the  desk  in  the  office  inside 
was  a  portly  woman  who  was  looking  over  the 
register  and  checking  some  figures  on  a  slip  of 
paper.  She  looked  up  as  Barbara  entered. 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Barbara,  advancing 
with  her  travelling-bag,  "  I  am  Mrs.  Timberly, 
from  Paragon,  Kansas.  My  husband  stopped 
here  some  days  ago." 

Her  voice  trembled  in  spite  of  herself. 

Mrs.  Gibbs,  the  landlady,  for  it  was  she  who 
was  checking  the  figures,  gave  the  tired  stranger 
a  kindly  and  sympathetic  smile. 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  she  answered.  "The 
marshal  came  up  here  two  or  three  times  to 
ask  about  him.  You  wired  him,  I  think?" 

"Yes,"  said  Barbara,  the  color  coming  and 
going  in  her  tanned  cheeks. 

Mrs.  Gibbs  turned  the  pages  of  the  register 
slowly  and  found  a  signature  in  the  handwrit 
ing  that  Barbara  knew  so  well : 

"  R.  H.  Timberly,  Paragon,  Kansas." 

There  was  a  date  beside  the  name,  made 
when  Roger  first  set  foot  in  Cripple  Creek. 
The  record  showed,  too,  that  Roger  had  paid 
his  bill,  and  Mrs.  Gibbs  remembered  that  he 
had  asked  her  to  keep  his  valise  until  he  called 
or  sent  for  it.  But  that  had  been  more  than 
a  week  before. 


Barbara 

"  I  have  n't  seen  or  heard  of  him  since," 
said  the  landlady.  "  He  may  be  in  some  other 
hotel,  though  I  should  think  if  he  is  he  would 
send  for  his  grip.  It's  here  yet.  Perhaps 
you  could  get  the  marshal  to  find  out  if  he 
registered  at  any  other  place." 

At  Barbara's  request  Mrs.  Gibbs  sent  for 
the  marshal.  He  came  soon,  a  big-girthed, 
brown-whiskered,  keen-eyed  man,  who  looked 
with  quickened  interest  at  the  young  woman 
in  the  gray  travelling-dress,  whose  beauty 
was  so  marked  and  whose  questions  were  so 
unanswerable. 

"  Your  husband  is  n't  at  any  of  the  hotels," 
he  said,  with  the  firmness  of  conviction.  "  I 
made  inquiries  when  I  got  your  first  telegram. 
He  might  be  stopping  with  some  acquaintances, 
or  something." 

The  pain  in  Barbara's  face  touched  him. 

"There  must  be  many  wicked  men  here," 
she  said.  cc  He  had  a  little  money  with  him. 
He  may  have  been  robbed  —  killed.  Some 
thing  has  happened  to  him,  or  he  would  have 
written  to  me." 

The  marshal  was  a  man  of  experience,  and 
a  strange  light  came  into  his  clear,  keen  eyes. 

"Been  nobody  hurt  lately,  excepting  them 
two  Scotchmen  that  got  blowed  up  with  dyna- 

52 


In  the  Gold  Camp  of  the  Rockies 

mite  t'  other  day  over  at  the  Little  Boss,"  he 
said,  temporizing.  "  I  keep  a  pretty  good  grip 
on  the  doings  of  this  camp,  ma'am,  and  if  any 
thing  of  the  kind  had  occurred  I  'd  have  heard 
about  it.  It 's  my  opinion  that  your  husband 
is  n't  in  Cripple  Creek." 

He  did  not  want  to  tell  Barbara  that  he 
believed  her  husband  had  deserted  her,  but 
she  read  this  opinion  in  his  face  and  forced  its 
acknowledgment. 

"  No  ;  he  has  n't  deserted  me,"  she  declared, 
with  hot  cheeks,  pained  that  any  one  should 
harbor  such  a  thought  for  an  instant.  "  You 
do  not  know  Roger.  Something  terrible  has 
happened  to  him ;  he  is  sick  or  hurt  some 
where,  or,"  she  faltered,  "dead.  He  would 
never  leave  me  in  that  way,  without  a  word." 

The  marshal  confessed  that  he  was  no  doubt 
in  error,  promised  to  set  on  foot  an  inquiry, 
and  departed. 

During  the  interval  of  waiting  for  the  mar 
shal's  arrival,  Barbara  had  examined  Roger's 
valise,  clutching  it  nervously  and  eagerly  when 
Mrs.  Gibbs  gave  it  to  her  and  feeling  that 
perhaps  it  held  something  which  would  assist 
in  clearing  away  the  mystery.  It  contained 
only  some  soiled  linen ;  everything  else  had 
been  taken  out  of  it.  Even  though  Mrs. 

53 


Barbara 

Gibbs  was  present,  Barbara  had  wept  over  it 
as  she  put  the  contents  again  in  place ;  and 
now  that  the  marshal  was  gone  and  she  began 
to  feel  that  whatever  was  done  she  must  do 
alone,  she  begged  the  landlady  to  assign  her 
the  room  Roger  had  taken,  and  she  was  soon 
shown  up  to  it. 

It  was  probably  the  first  and  last  room 
Roger  had  occupied  in  the  camp  ;  and  the  very 
furniture,  the  dumb  walls  and  chairs,  took  on 
something  of  sacredness  in  Barbara's  eyes. 

When  she  had  put  the  valise  away,  she 
resolved  to  put  her  tears  away  with  it  and  begin 
the  search  to  which  she  was  determined  to 
dedicate  all  of  her  energies.  Tears  were  weak 
ening,  and  she  needed  to  be  strong,  she  told 
herself — oh,  so  strong!  for  Roger's  sake. 
With  this  resolve  in  mind,  she  somewhat 
astonished  Mrs.  Gibbs  by  descending  to  the 
dining-room  and  eating  a  hearty  meal. 

This  sensible  action  so  strengthened  her 
that,  when  she  walked  out  into  the  crooked 
streets,  having  on  a  slip  of  paper  the  addresses 
of  certain  business  and  mining  firms  that  she 
purposed  to  interview,  a  modicum  of  hope 
came  to  uphold  her  and  make  her  brave.  The 
air  was  crisp  and  exhilarating,  and  the  bright 
sunlight  on  the  white,  far  peaks  of  the  Sangre 

54 


In  the  Gold  Camp  of  the  Rockies 

de  Christo  and  Collegiate  ranges  seemed  to 
smile  like  heaven's  own  benediction. 

But  the  hope  died  as  the  hours  wore  on ; 
and,  when  darkness  descended  and  the  camp 
lights  began  to  wink  and  shine,  exhausted  in 
body  and  mind  and  with  a  crushing  weight  at 
her  heart,  Barbara  crept  back  along  the  streets, 
where  music  and  loud  laughter  arose  from  the 
drinking  resorts  and  dance  halls  that  every 
where  brazenly  opened  wide  their  doors. 

Up  on  a  high  slope  a  brass  band  brayed  in 
front  of  a  gospel  tent.  There  a  number  of 
people  were  gathering.  Outside  the  tent  a 
minister  in  a  high  collar  and  long  frock-coat 
was  earnestly  inviting  the  passers  to  enter  as 
Barbara  hurried  by  ;  but  she  shrank  from  him 
and  from  the  crowd,  gave  the  place  but  a 
glance,  and  fled  on  for  the  shelter  of  the  Placer 
Hotel. 

Mrs.  Gibbs  had  thoughtfully  put  aside  some 
thing  for  her  and  kept  the  tea  warm,  for  the 
suppers  of  the  Placer  Hotel  were  served  early. 
She  sat  by  the  table  sympathetically  while  Bar 
bara  tried  to  eat  and  to  retain  a  show  of  courage 
in  spite  of  her  misery. 

Mrs.  Gibbs  had  a  warm  heart ;  and,  being  a 
woman,  knew  that  a  woman  in  trouble  must 
have  some  one  to  whom  she  can  pour  out  her 

55 


Barbara 

overflowing  grief  and  thus  keep  the  burden  of 
its  weight  from  crushing  her  utterly.  So  she 
asked  questions,  when  the  narrative  flagged, 
and  brought  in  exclamations  at  the  proper 
places,  until,  broken  by  the  contagion  of  Bar 
bara^  sore  trouble,  she,  too,  sobbed  aloud  and 
let  the  big  tears  flow  unhindered  down  her 
cheeks. 

"And  there  didn't  seem  to  be  a  clue  to  him 
at  all,  anywhere  you  could  go  !  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Barbara,  dulled  with  hope 
lessness.  "  I  could  n't  find  a  man  that  had 
ever  seen  or  heard  of  him.  I  showed  his  pic 
ture  in  all  the  mining  offices,  but  it  did 
no  good.  Strangers  are  coming  and  going  all 
the  time,  you  know." 

She  brought  out  the  photograph  and  gave  it 
to  Mrs.  Gibbs  for  examination ;  and  cried  a 
little  when  she  took  it  again  and  set  it  tem 
porarily  on  the  table,  for  the  eyes  seemed  to 
follow  her  with  a  hungry  look. 

"  But  I  '11  find  him  !  "  she  asserted,  striving 
to  pull  her  courage  together.  "  He  is  some 
where,  alive  or  dead ;  and  I  will  find  him.  I 
must  find  him  !  " 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE   AUTOCRAT   OF   THE  "DAILY  CLIPPER" 

TIRED  and  discouraged  though  she  was, 
Barbara  wrote  to  the  Tilfords  that  night 
before  retiring,  detailing  briefly  her  experiences 
and  lack  of  success,  and  expressing  her  deter 
mination  to  remain  in  Cripple  Creek  until  she 
learned  what  had  become  of  Roger. 

She  did  not  sleep  well,  and  descended  early 
from  her  room,  feeling  that  her  task  was  one 
that  admitted  of  no  delay.  Early  as  she  was, 
she  found  the  dining-room  crowded.  There 
were  only  a  few  women  in  the  motley  throng 
at  the  breakfast  table,  and  these  were  type 
writer  girls  employed  in  some  of  the  mining 
offices. 

As  Mrs.  Gibbs  piloted  Barbara  to  a  seat,  she 
astonished  and  bewildered  her  new  guest  by 
giving  her  a  sweeping  introduction  to  every 
one  in  the  room,  and  explaining  briefly  the  na 
ture  of  her  errand.  From  the  landlady's  direct 
business  standpoint  this  was  probably  the  cor 
rect  thing  to  do,  and  Mrs.  Gibbs  meant  well, 

57 


Barbara 

but  it  brought  a  hot  flush  to  Barbara's  cheeks 
and  made  her  very  ill  at  ease. 

Barbara  was  conscious  that  the  men  and 
women  were  staring  at  her  now  and  then,  and 
just  across  the  table  she  caught  the  admiring 
and  inquiring  look  of  a  young  man  in  a  clay- 
stained  coat.  This  young  man,  she  afterward 
knew,  was  Jack  Nixon,  and  she  was  given  oc 
casion  to  remember  him  for  many  a  long  year. 

"  I  am  going  to  visit  the  mines  to-day," 
she  said  to  Mrs.  Gibbs,  after  breakfast,  "  and 
the  stamp  mills.  Are  there  any  stamp  mills 
here?" 

"  There  is  one,  at  the  further  end  of  the 
gulch,  just  beyond  the  camp,"  was  the  land 
lady's  answer. 

Barbara  was  again  determinedly  brave  that 
morning,  notwithstanding  her  wakeful  and  rest 
less  night.  She  visited  the  stamp  mill  first, 
finding  the  distance  a  long  walk  over  rough 
and  uneven  ground.  She  recalled  how  eagerly 
Roger  had  inquired  of  Bexar  about  the  peculi 
arities  of  a  stamp  mill,  wishing  to  use  the  in 
formation  in  a  mining  story  he  thought  of 
writing,  and  it  seemed  to  her  probable  that  he 
would  visit  the  stamp  mill  while  in  Cripple 
Creek,  if  nothing  else. 

At  the  mill  men  were  unloading  what  looked 

58 


Autocrat  of  the  "  Daily  Clipper  " 

to  be  common  road  earth,  which  they  had 
brought  down  from  the  placers  on  the  top  of 
Little  Bull  Mountain.  Standing  with  one  of 
the  mill  attendants  by  the  side  of  a  trough-like 
structure  that  seemed  to  be  filled  with  nothing 
but  muddy  water,  into  which  the  earth  from 
Little  Bull  Mountain  was  being  thrown,  while 
the  heavy  stamps  thumped  thunderously  up 
and  down  in  the  mixture,  Barbara  lifted  her 
voice  and  talked  to  the  man  of  Roger,  showing 
him  the  photograph  which  she  had  already  car 
ried  to  so  many  places. 

Meeting  with  no  success,  she  went  round  to 
the  broad  tables,  covered  with  mercury,  over 
which  the  muddy  water,  laden  with  its  precious 
gold  dust,  was  passing,  and  talked  with  the 
men  there  in  the  same  way.  The  men  were 
sympathetic  and  hearkened  attentively,  stop 
ping  their  work  to  listen  in  the  midst  of  the 
thudding  roar  of  the  stamps.  Perhaps  they 
were  touched  as  much  by  Barbara's  beauty  as 
by  her  story.  Then  she  questioned  the  team 
sters  ;  but  no  one  knew  anything  about  Roger, 
and  no  one  could  recall  the  face  pictured  in 
the  photograph. 

After  that  Barbara  climbed  laboriously  the 
aspen  slopes  to  the  various  mines  and  claims 
near  the  camp,  finding  that  such  toil  made  the 

59 


Barbara 

thin  air  of  that  high  altitude  cut  her  lungs  like 
a  knife.  A  couple  of  Scotchmen  at  the  Loch 
Lomond  mine,  after  studying  the  photograph, 
thought  they  had  seen  "  thot  mon  "  somewhere, 
at  some  time,  but  their  ideas  on  the  subject 
were  so  vague  that  Barbara,  who  had  been 
thrown  into  a  flutter  of  hope  by  their  words, 
was  forced  to  put  aside  their  recollections 
and  statements  as  wholly  unreliable  and 
worthless. 

She  returned  to  the  Placer  Hotel  late  in 
the  afternoon,  having  pursued  her  search  with 
feverish  energy.  She  acquainted  Mrs.  Gibbs 
with  her  lack  of  success,  as  she  sat  down  to 
the  deserted  dining- table. 

"  There  is  one  man  in  town,  that  I  had  n't 
thought  of,  who  might  help  you  by  giving  you 
some  points,  even  if  he  does  n't  know  anything 
about  your  husband,  Mrs.  Timberly,"  said 
kind-hearted  Mrs.  Gibbs.  "That's  old  Jeb 
Benson.  He  knows  more  about  the  mines 
and  the  mountains  than  any  man  in  Cripple 
Creek.  I  don't  know  how  many  years  he  's 
been  mining  and  prospecting.  Wherever  there 
is  a  new  f  find,'  there  you  '11  be  sure  to  meet 
Benson,  and  that 's  why  he  is  here.  You  '11 
find  his  little  cabin  at  the  top  of  the  first  hill 
on  the  left,  after  turning  the  second  street  cor- 

60 


Autocrat  of  the  "  Daily  Clipper  " 

ner.  It  is  n't  far,  and  you  might  have  a  talk 
with  him." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Barbara,  getting  up 
from  the  table ;  "  I  will  go  at  once  ;  "  which 
she  did,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Gibbs'  protests. 

Barbara  was  afraid  that  Benson  would  not 
be  at  home,  but  when  she  reached  the  little 
cabin  she  found  him  sitting  in  the  sunshine 
before  the  door,  calmly  smoking  his  pipe. 

"  Evenin',"  he  said,  when  he  saw  that  she 
meant  to  stop  and  address  him.  "  Purty 
view  here.  I  picked  it  for  my  home  because 
o'  that." 

The  view  was  not  merely  pretty,  it  ap 
proached  the  sublime.  The  Collegiate  Moun 
tains,  the  Sangre  de  Christo  and  Saguache,  and 
far  to  the  westward  the  great  Main  Range  of 
the  Rockies,  thrust  upward  into  the  brilliant 
sky  their  shining  crests.  In  the  other  direc 
tion  was  visible  the  cloud-rimmed  head  of  hoary 
old  Pike's  Peak.  In  the  intervening  distances 
were  pinnacles  a,nd  hills,  valleys  and  mesas, 
gorges  and  gulches,  all  bathed  in  the  warm 
sunshine,  and  suffused  with  an  ineffable  glow 
which  transformed  and  glorified  even  the  hete 
rogeneous  ugliness  of  the  camp  of  Cripple 
Creek. 

Barbara  looked  at  the  old  prospector  rather 
61 


Barbara 

than  at  the  landscape.  He  was  worn  and  bent, 
his  face  was  thin  and  seamed,  his  hands  knotted 
and  calloused.  He  had  removed  his  frayed, 
wide-brimmed  hat,  and  scanty  white  locks  now 
strayed  down  over  the  collar  of  his  ill-fitting 
brown  coat.  Only  a  glance  was  needed  to  show 
that  he  had  endured  privations  and  terrible  hard 
ships.  But  they  had  not  broken  him.  The 
glance  of  his  pale  blue  eyes  was  as  keen  as 
that  of  a  hawk,  and,  later,  when  she  induced 
him  to  talk  of  the  mines  and  the  mountains, 
the  eyes  burned  with  a  strange  fire. 

She  introduced  herself  and  her  subject,  and 
he  invited  her  into  the  cabin,  which  she  found 
as  queer  and  odd  in  its  way  as  the  old  man  was 
in  his.  All  round  the  walls  were  rows  of 
shelves  on  which  rested  ore  samples  from  all 
quarters  of  the  earth.  He  insisted  on  showing 
these  to  her  before  he  would  consent  to  talk 
on  the  subject  of  her  errand,  pointing  out  this 
and  that  valuable  specimen,  telling  her  where 
it  was  from,  and  how  much  the  ore  would  assay 
to  the  ton. 

"  I  Ve  had  a  lot  of  valuable  properties  in 
my  hands,  at  one  time  or  another,"  he  de 
clared,  with  a  childish  smile,  "and  I  ain't 
made  my  pile  yit.  But  I  'm  still  young 
enough,  as  ye  may  say,  and  I  '11  make  a  strike 

62 


Autocrat  of  the  "  Daily  Clipper  " 

Yore  I  die  ;  see  if  I  don't.  Funny  thing,  pros- 
pectin'  is.  The  burro  you  're  ridin'  kin  tell 
as  much  about  the  ground  you  're  goin'  over 
as  you  kin.  Now,  I  prospected  all  over  these 
tarnal  hills  a  good  ten  years  ago,  and  did  n't 
find  a  spoonful  o'  pay  dirt.  Then  along  comes 
some  fellers  that,  gin'erly  speakin',  would  n't 
know  gold  from  shinin'  mica,  and  they  made 
a  strike.  I  was  stumped,  I  tell  ye,  when  I 
heerd  that  they  'd  found  good  color  on  Cripple 
Creek.  It 's  all  luck.  If  a  man  hain't  got  luck, 
't  ain't  no  use.  They  had  luck  when  they  was 
hyer,  and  I  did  n't.  That  explains  it.  But 
my  time  '11  come  bimeby." 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  Barbara  persuaded 
the  old  man  to  talk  of  her  search  instead  of 
his  prospecting  and  mining  ventures,  but  she 
gained  his  attention  finally,  and,  telling  her 
story,  displayed  the  picture. 

The  pale  blue  eyes  grew  reflective  as  the 
knobby  fingers  clutched  and  held  the  pho 
tograph. 

"  I  knowed  a  feller  who  looked  like  that," 
said  Benson,  in  a  tone  that  made  Barbara's 
heart  leap,  only  to  chill  at  the  next  sentence. 
"  He  was  my  pardner  on  the  Gunnison,  in 
'seventy-five." 

"  It  could  n't  have  been  Roger,"  Barbara 
63 


Barbara 

declared.  "  He  was  never  in  the  mountains 
until  a  few  days  ago." 

"  Well,  it  looks  like  him  !  "  Benson  asserted, 
getting  out  a  pair  of  heavy  steel-bowed  specta 
cles,  that  he  might  study  the  photograph  to 
better  advantage. 

"  Looks  more  'n  ever  like  him  now/'  he 
persisted.  "  His  name  was  Wash  Craddock. 
Him  and  me  climbed  down  into  a  canon  over 
there  by  snubbin'  the  tails  of  our  burros  round 
the  pine  trees,  and  took  out  a  thousand  dollars 
wu'th  of  silver  in  two  weeks." 

Benson  might  have  wandered  on  in  this 
manner  for  a  long  time  if  Barbara  had  not 
interrupted  him. 

"  No,  I  ain't  never  seen  him,  ma'am,"  he 
admitted  reluctantly,  "  if  he  was  n't  Wash 
Craddock.  Looks  enough  like  him  to  be  his 
brother.  Wash  is  in  Ouray  now  ;  doin'  well, 
I  'm  told.  I  'm  expectin'  him  up  hyer,  though, 
'most  anytime.  Wash  is  a  good  'eal  like  a 
brass  band  —  he  likes  to  lead  the  percession ; 
that 's  why  I  'm  expectin'  him." 

Barbara  turned  Benson's  thoughts  again  to 
Roger ;  and  he  began  to  guess  various  wild 
and  improbable  places  to  which  Roger  might 
have  gone  in  search  of  "  color." 

The  old  man  was  reluctant  to  have  her  go, 
64 


Autocrat  of  the  "  Daily  Clipper '; 

and  she  lingered,  listening  to  his  talk  even  after 
all  hope  of  gaining  any  information  or  help 
from  him  had  departed,  then  took  her  way 
wearily  back  to  the  Placer  Hotel. 

"  I  have  n't  made  any  progress  to-day,"  she 
said  to  Mrs.  Gibbs,  after  detailing  briefly  her 
interview  with  Benson;  "but  I  will  find  Roger, 
or  find  out  what  has  become  of  him.  I  must 
do  it,  and  I  will." 

Day  by  day  this  brave  determination  was 
pursued,  in  a  spirit  as  brave.  Barbara  sent 
copies  of  the  photograph  to  prominent  men 
and  officers  throughout  all  the  surrounding 
country  ;  she  published  inquiries  far  and  wide  ; 
she  continued  her  visits  to  mines  and  mining 
claims,  and  talked  with  people  in  every  walk 
of  life.  But  Roger  Timberlyhad  dropped  out 
of  the  sight  of  men  as  completely  as  if  the 
earth  had  closed  over  him. 

As  for  Bexar's  claim,  which  had  been  the 
chief  instrument  in  luring  Roger  to  Cripple 
Creek,  she  found  that  the  work  necessary  to 
hold  it  had  not  been  done  and  that  a  contest 
had  been  filed  against  its  claimant.  With 
nothing  to  show  that  it  had  ever  been  trans 
ferred  to  Roger  and  herself,  and  no  money  with 
which  to  fight  the  contest,  Barbara  was  advised 
that  it  was  useless  to  do  anything,  and  suffered 
5  65 


Barbara 

the  contestant  to  have  his  way.  Besides,  she 
was  too  deeply  touched  by  her  sorrow  and  too 
deeply  immersed  in  her  search  for  Roger  to 
desire  to  spend  time  and  money  in  quarrelling 
over  a  hole  in  the  ground,  that  might  in  the 
end  turn  out  to  be  worthless. 

Going  one  day  into  the  office  of  the  fc  Daily 
Clipper,"  which  she  had  visited  frequently  in 
her  search,  Barbara  overheard  the  proprietor 
storming  because  the  editor  had  incontinently 
deserted  the  tripod.-  The  thought  that  came 
to  her  was  so  daring  that  she  fairly  gasped. 
She  was  at  the  end  of  her  slender  stock  of 
money,  and  felt  that  she  would  be  forced  to 
return  to  the  dreary  claim  life  in  Kansas,  which, 
without  Roger's  presence  and  company,  would 
have  been  intolerable. 

Though  her  face  was  thinner  than  when  she 
had  come  to  Cripple  Creek,  it  was  fairer,  and 
when  she  boldly  invaded  the  composing-room 
where  the  proprietor  was  giving  vent  to  his 
vitriolic  wrath,  it  seemed  to  the  angry  man  as 
if  a  beautiful  and  accusing  spirit  had  entered 
the  sulphurous  and  untidy  place. 

The  storm  of  words  died  on  his  lips,  and  he 
looked  at  her  as  if  she  had  charged  him  with  a 
crime,  while  the  grimy  compositors  lifted  their 
heads  from  their  cases  and  stared. 
66 


Autocrat  of  the    "  Daily  Clipper  " 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Matthews/'  she  said, 
flushing,  "  I  did  n't  intend  to  overhear,  but  I 
should  like  to  apply  for  that  vacant  position." 

Matthews,  who  was  a  red-faced,  nervous 
man,  stared  at  her,  not  knowing  whether  to 
take  her  seriously  or  otherwise. 

cc  Have  you  had  any  experience  ?  "  he  ques 
tioned,  getting  his  breath  at  last.  "  Do  you 
think  you  could  do  the  work  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  try,"  she  urged ;  then 
began  to  explain  how  the  experience  gained  in 
her  work  for  Roger  would  help  her. 

"  And  I  'm  already  so  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  Cripple  Creek,  you  know,  by  reason  of 
the  search  I  Ve  been  making,"  she  added. 

Her  lips  were  parted  and  her  eager  hopeful 
ness  caused  her  eyes  to  shine  like  stars.  She 
had  seldom  looked  more  beautiful.  Matthews, 
hard-headed  and  practical,  was  swayed,  and 
hesitated. 

"  Well  —  er  —  you  see,  Mrs.  Timberly  — 
that  is  —  "  her  eyes  began  to  fill  with  tears  of 
disappointment  —  "if  you  really  think  you 
can  do  the  work  you  might  try  it.  I  '11  look 
after  all  the  business,  and  do  what  little  report 
ing  I  can  ;  and  there  is  Murkson  —  he  handles 
a  pencil  pretty  nimbly." 

Murkson,  a  long-necked,  gawky  young 
67 


Barbara 

man,  with  the  keen  nose  of  a  news  reporter, 
stared  at  Barbara  in  undisguised  admiration. 

"  I  am  sure  that  I  can  do  the  work,  Mr. 
Matthews,"  she  declared,  beginning  to  remove 
her  hat,  that  Matthews  might  not  be  given 
time  to  change  his  mind. 

She  turned  toward  the  outer  room,  resolved 
to  fight  back  her  own  hesitation  as  stoutly  as 
she  had  fought  back  that  of  the  proprietor, 
and  made  her  way  to  the  vacant  editorial  desk, 
Matthews  and  Murkson  following.  Matthews 
came  and  stood  by  the  desk,  with  Murkson  at 
his  side. 

"  Here  is  yesterday's  c  Clipper  '  and  some 
exchanges,"  he  said,  pushing  them  toward  her. 
"  If  you'll  look  them  over  it  will  help  you  to 
get  the  run  of  things." 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  she  answered  almost 
gayly,  as  she  produced  a  pencil  and  drew 
forward  a  pad  of  paper.  "  You  will  want  to 
say  something  about  that  big  strike  at  the 
Anaconda,  I  suppose?  I  believe  you  are 
taking  the  side  of  the  miners,  are  you  not  ? 
Well,  my  own  sympathies  are  naturally  that 
way." 

Matthews'  red  face  was  beginning  to  shine 
and  Murkson  looked  delighted.  Murkson 
could  write  up  "  news,"  but  some  one  was 

68 


Autocrat  of  the  "  Daily  Clipper  v 

needed  to  do  the  office  and  editorial  work  and 
keep  the  book  accounts. 

"  I  'm  sure  you  can  do  it  all  right,"  Murk- 
son  ventured,  giving  her  an  approving  glance. 
"  I  remember  that  when  I  worked  over  in 
Aspen — across  the  divide,  you  know  —  a  lady 
did  all  of  this  sort  of  work,  and  she  did  it 
well." 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  will  be  all  right/1  Matthews 
agreed  ;  "  and  we  '11  assist." 

Matthews  helped  to  get  out  the  editorial 
matter  for  the  edition  of  that  afternoon,  while 
Murkson,  called  on  by  Barbara  to  do  his  best, 
fairly  swamped  the  compositors  with  minor 
items  and  personals. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  edition 
was  a  success  ;  and  that  night  the  dreams  of 
the  delighted  proprietor  were  about  equally 
compounded  of  visions  of  ravishingly  beautiful 
women  covering  snowy  paper  with  glittering 
editorials  and  of  the  arrival  of  the  delightful 
day  when  the  <c  Clipper"  should  crush  out  its 
rival  and  have  the  field  of  Cripple  Creek  all 
to  itself,  with  a  million-dollar  tax  list  to  publish 
as  a  supplement. 

Barbara  had  gained  her  point  and  had 
proven  her  ability,  and  could  now  remain  in 
Cripple  Creek  and  continue  the  task  that  had 

69 


Barbara 

brought  her  to  the  place.  She  entered  upon 
her  new  work  with  a  zest  and  energy  that  sur 
prised  even  herself.  It  gave  relief  to  the 
tension  that  had  been  wearing  her  out.  She 
kept  up  persistently  the  search  for  Roger. 
The  habit  of  scanning  the  exchanges,  which 
had  first  brought  her  into  acquaintance  with 
Matthews,  she  continued,  and  was  glad  because 
this  was  now  in  the  line  of  her  duty. 

By  and  by  she  began  to  take  a  more  com 
prehensive  interest  in  Cripple  Creek  and  the 
rich  gold  fields  that  surround  it,  and  felt  a  sort 
of  joyous  pride  in  the  rapid  growth  of  the 
place,  which  was  developing  with  marvellous 
strides  from  a  wild  camp  into  a  city  with  busi 
ness  blocks,  electric  lights,  and  the  general 
outward  appearance  of  a  place  of  thrift  and 
refinement.  The  discoveries  of  rich  claims, 
the  introduction  of  improved  processes  for 
increasing  the  yield  of  low-grade  ores,  the 
doings  of  the  "best  people,"  —  for,  strange  as 
it  may  seem,  Cripple  Creek  also  had  its  "  four 
hundred,"  —  touched  her  in  a  new  way.  For 
was  not  Cripple  Creek  now  her  home,  and  she 
the  editorial  autocrat  of  its  leading  afternoon 
paper  ? 

The  summer  and  fall  passed  quickly.  The 
snow  line  began  to  creep  down  the  sides  of  the 

70 


Autocrat  of  the  "  Daily  Clipper'' 

high  peaks.  The  green  and  gold  of  the  leaves, 
which  had  made  of  every  hilltop  a  flaunting 
Hibernian  banner,  passed  away.  Then  winter 
came,  with  its  fierce  storms  and  its  cold. 

Barbara  wrote  now  and  then  to  the  Tilfords, 
who  were  still  caring  for  her  stock  and  poultry, 
her  desire  being  to  keep  the  old  home  just  as 
it  was  should  Roger  return  to  occupy  it  with 
her. 

She  continued  her  toil  in  the  office  of  the 
"  Clipper,"  to  the  perfect  satisfaction  of  both 
Matthews  and  Murkson ;  seemed,  in  fact,  to 
become  a  fixture  there,  like  the  editorial  table ; 
and  the  mystery  of  Roger's  disappearance  re 
mained  as  much  of  a  mystery  as  at  first.  She 
was  beginning  now  to  think  of  him  as  dead. 

Thus  two  years  and  a  half  passed  away. 


CHAPTER  V 

JACK   NIXON'S   RECOLLECTIONS 

RETURNING  one  day  to  her  room  at  the 
Placer  Hotel,  which  she  still  occupied, 
Barbara    found    Jack    Nixon,    in    clay-stained 
clothing  and  boots,  awaiting  her  in  the  office. 

"  What  is  it,  Jack  ?  "  she  questioned,  when 
she  saw  by  his  manner  that  he  wished  to  speak 
with  her. 

"  I  found  it  in  the  mine  this  mornin',"  he 
said,  advancing  with  some  hesitation.  "  I 
reckon  it  belonged  to  your  husband." 

Barbara  paled  and  trembled  as  she  took  a 
packet  from  his  hand.  Hastily  tearing  away 
the  newspaper  covering  she  found  a  mildewed 
envelope,  and  across  its  expansive  front  the 
name  "  R.  H.  Timberly,"  in  Roger's  hand 
writing.  Her  hands  shook  as  she  drew  out 
the  contents,  —  two  letters  written  by  her  to 
Roger,  and  a  soiled  railway  map  of  Colorado. 

"  You  '11  want  to  see  the  place  where  it  was 
found,  likely  ?  "  said  young  Nixon,  in  a  troubled 
voice. 

72 


Jack  Nixon's  Recollections 

"  Yes,  I  '11  go  with  you  at  once.  There  was 
nothing  —  nothing  else  ?  "  her  imagination  pic 
turing  horrible  discoveries. 

"  Not  a  thing,"  Jack  assured  her.  "  I 
turned  it  up  with  my  shovel.  You  see,  there 
had  been  blasting,  and  it  had  got  covered  up 
in  that  way,  I  reckon.  But  there  was  n't  any 
thing  else." 

A  sudden  thought  came  to  her.  Asking 
him  to  wait  a  minute,  she  ran  upstairs  to 
her  room  and  took  from  the  little  mantel 
Roger's  photograph,  and  soon  put  it  in  Nixon's 
hands. 

''You've  been  working  in  that  mine  a  good 
while,  have  n't  you  ?  "  she  asked.  "  My  hus 
band  may  have  visited  it.  I  don't  remember 
whether  I  ever  showed  you  this  or  not." 

She  was  flushed  with  excitement,  though 
striving  to  be  calm.  Jack  Nixon  stared  hard 
at  the  photograph  and  turned  it  over  before 
replying.  On  the  back  was  written  "  R.  H. 
Timberly." 

"  So  that 's  your  husband  !  "  he  said  slowly. 
"  I  never  seen  his  picture  before.  I  recollect 
that  face,  and  I  wish  you  'd  showed  me  this 
sooner.  He  stayed  at  the  hotel  hyer  and 
walked  down  to  the  mine  with  me  one  mornin'. 
But  I  'd  forgot  that  he  said  his  name  was 

73 


Barbara 

Timberly.     I    suppose   that's   what    throwed 


me." 


Barbara  was  now  shaking  as  with  an  ague. 
Jack  Nixon  continued  to  stare  at  the  photo 
graph,  wrinkling  his  brow  in  thought. 

"  Seems  to  me  't  there  was  a  feller  come  up 
hyer  to  the  hotel  t'  see  him,"  he  continued. 
"  Yes,  I  'm  shore  of  it.  It 's  hard  to  recollect 
little  things,  y'  know.  They  got  acquainted 
down  town,  or  something  like  that;  and  they 
set  right  over  there  by  the  winder  an'  talked  a 
good  'eal  the  evenin'  before  Mr.  —  your  hus 
band —  went  with  me  down  to  the  mine." 

"Can  you  recall  the  man's  name?"  was  her 
anxious  question. 

"  No,  I  can't,"  he  confessed,  scratching  his 
head  in  perplexity.  "  Faces  stick  t'  me,  but 
I  ain't  good  at  names." 

"Or  anything  they  said?" 

"  It  keeps  comin'  t'  me  all  the  time  that  they 
was  talkin'  bout  San  Something-or-other  —  San 
Diego,  it  seems  t'  me.  Ain't  they  some  old 
ruins  o'  some  kind  er  other  —  houses  mebbe 
—  round  San  Diego  ?  " 

"  Some  old  Spanish  mission  churches,  I  be 
lieve,"  was  Barbara's  tremulous  answer. 

His  face  lighted. 

"Must  'a'  been  that,  then.  Tears  t'  me 
74 


Jack  Nixon's  Recollections 

that  it  was  some  queer  old  houses  they  was 
talkin'  about  —  but  it  might  'a'  been  churches 
—  must  'a'  been.  I  'm  mighty  near  dead  cer 
tain  that  that  was  the  place." 

Barbara  knew  that  it  was  just  like  Roger  to 
take  fire  at  the  thought  of  visiting  the  Spanish 
mission  churches ;  but  she  knew  also  that  it 
was  not  like  him  to  undertake  such  a  trip  with 
out  informing  her  of  his  intention. 

Instead  of  returning  the  photograph  to  its 
place  on  the  mantel  in  her  room  she  dropped 
it  into  her  hand-bag  with  the  packet  of  letters, 
and  went  with  Jack  Nixon  to  the  street  when 
he  had  no  further  information  to  impart.  Five 
minutes  later  they  were  hurrying  toward  the 
Amazon  mine. 

A  sharp  "  Halt !  "  brought  them  to  a  full 
stop  at  the  foot  of  a  rocky  slope.  A  gray- 
shirted  miner  stood  in  the  path  armed  with  a 
Winchester.  The  Amazon  was  a  contested 
mine  ;  and  those  in  possession,  having  strong 
faith  in  their  "  nine  points  of  law,"  had  sur 
rounded  the  shaft  and  the  buildings  with  an 
armed  guard  pending  the  result  of  the  big  legal 
battle  that  was  in  progress. 

Jack  Nixon  stated  the  object  of  their  mis 
sion,  and  the  guard  stood  aside  and  permitted 
them  to  pass.  The  manager,  whom  they 

75 


Barbara 

visited  in  his  shed-like  office,  listened  graciously 
to  Barbara's  story,  and  after  inspecting  the  pho 
tograph  and  the  packet  of  letters  consented  to 
the  search  of  the  mine. 

Nothing  came  of  it,  however ;  though  Bar 
bara  saw  the  place  where  the  packet  had  been 
turned  up  by  Nixon's  spade,  and  followed  the 
light  of  the  lantern  to  the  farthest  end  of  the 
tunnel. 

The  afternoon  was  far  spent  when  she  reached 
the  office  of  the  "Clipper."  The  place  was  in 
confusion,  the  work  much  behind ;  Matthews, 
groaning  over  some  proofs,  was  in  the  depths 
of  despair.  His  face  cleared  when  he  saw  her. 
He  pushed  the  proofs  toward  her;  and  she, 
taking  them  up,  seated  herself  at  the  editorial 
desk  and  went  to  work. 

Not  until  the  forms  were  on  the  press  and 
the  edition  was  being  ground  out  did  Barbara 
acquaint  Matthews  with  the  story  of  the  dis 
covery  of  the  letters,  of  Jack  Nixon's  recollec 
tions,  and  of  her  determination  to  start  at  once 
for  California.  Matthews'  red  face  assumed  a 
look  of  perplexity  and  regret. 

"  It  will  be  a  wild-goose  chase,"  he  asserted 
in  his  blunt  way,  twisting  anxiously  in  his  chair 
and  looking  straight  at  her. 

c<  Jack  Nixon's  tongue  is  a  good  deal  of  a 
76 


Jack  Nixon's  Recollections 

bell-clapper.  It 's  my  opinion,  Mrs.  Timberly, 
that  whatever  became  of  your  husband,  he  is 
dead  long  ago.  Let 's  see  !  How  long  have 
you  been  here  ?  " 

"  More  than  two  years,"  said  Barbara. 

"  And  you  have  n't  left  a  stone  unturned,  I 
can  say  that  for  you.  Now,  does  it  seem  at  all 
likely  that  when  you  've  failed  here,  after  all 
that  you  've  done,  that  you  can  hope  to  do  any 
thing  in  California  P  I  don't  think  your  hus 
band  went  to  California.  Nixon  simply  made 
a  wild  grasshopper  jump  at  conclusions.  There 
are  hundreds  of  places  out  here  in  the  West  that 
begin  with  San." 

His  words  distressed  her;  not  because  they 
weakened  her  resolution,  but  because  they 
showed  her  how  slender  was  this  new  thread 
which  she  had  determined  to  follow.  Mat 
thews,  who  was  studying  her  face,  interpreted 
its  changed  expression  as  an  indication  that  his 
argument  was  succeeding.  He  redoubled  his 
efforts,  therefore,  pointing  out  with  clear  con 
clusion,  as  he  thought,  how  improbable  it  was 
that  Roger  was  still  alive  and  how  hopeless  the 
task  of  making  further  search  for  him.  To  his 
dismay,  as  he  talked  on,  he  saw  the  beautiful, 
thoughtful  face  harden  into  iron  determination. 

"  What  you  say  is  all  too  true,"  Barbara 
77 


Barbara 

admitted,  as  he  ceased  talking.  "  But  it  does  n't 
change  me.  Perhaps  it  is  foolish  for  me  to 
think  of  going  to  San  Diego.  Jack  Nixon 
is  n't  positive  that  was  the  place,  as  you  say. 
But  what  Jack  remembers  is  good  proof  that 
Roger  left  Cripple  Creek,  and  shows  me  that  I 
have  thrown  away  more  than  two  years  in  the 
search  here.  When  I  began  work  here  with 
you,  Mr.  Matthews,  it  was  solely  for  the  pur 
pose  of  earning  money  to  enable  me  to  go  on 
with  my  search.  But  for  that  I  should  never 
have  had  the  audacity  to  apply  for  the  place  or 
make  such  a  venture.  But  the  determination 
of  my  life,  to  find  Roger  if  he  is  living  or  if  he 
is  dead,  gave  me  courage  to  do  things  I  should 
have  shrunk  from  under  other  circumstances." 

"  You  Ve  made  the  best  editor  I  ever 
had ! "  said  Matthews,  bluntly  but  stoutly. 
"  Egad  !  Mrs.  Timberly,  you  're  a  woman  in  a 
thousand.  How  you  do  it  I  don't  know,  but 
you  write  a  better  political  leader  and  min 
ing  leader  than  half  the  editors  in  Colorado. 
Maybe  you  caught  the  knack  from  your  hus 
band,  as  you  sometimes  say,  but  I  think  it 
was  born  in  you.  If  you  do  go,  I  don't  know 
what 's  to  become  of  the  c  Clipper.' ' 

That  was  the  thing  that  touched  Matthews 
most.  He  was  not  a  writer  himself,  though  a 


Jack  Nixon's  Recollections 

hustling  and  successful  manager,  and  he  had 
come  to  rely  so  wholly  on  Barbara's  edito 
rial  tact,  strength,  and  knowledge,  that  without 
her  he  felt  as  the  swimmer  feels  in  mid  ocean 
with  the  life  raft  torn  from  his  hands. 

"I  must  go  !  "  she  said.  "  There  may  be  a 
clue  in  or  near  San  Diego,  and  if  I  should  fail 
to  find  it  simply  because  I  did  not  try,  I  could 
never  forgive  myself.  It  is  impossible  for  me 
to  remain  here  now  and  go  on  with  the  work 
as  I  have  done.  I  can't  tell  you  how  it  pains 
me  to  think  of  the  time  I  Ve  already  wasted 
here.  I  should  simply  fret  myself  into  a  fever 
if  I  stayed.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me, 
Mr.  Matthews,  and  so  has  Murkson,  and  all 
the  employees.  I  want  to  be  very  grateful,  and 
I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
for  all  you  have  done  for  me  ;  but  indeed  I 
cannot  stay.  It  is  not  that  I  desire  to  leave 
you,  but  that  I  must  leave  you.  Whatever 
comes  of  it,  and  however  much  I  may  regret 
it  hereafter,  I  must  go." 

Matthews  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  argue 
the  matter  further. 

"  When  will  you  start  ?  "   he  asked. 

"  To-night.     I  must  go  at  once." 

"  Then,  of  course,  you  '11  want  some  money," 
he  said,  reaching  for  an  account  book.  "  The 

79 


Barbara 

suddenness  of  the  thing  rather  knocks  me  out, 
but  if  you  must  go,  I  hope  that  everything  will 
turn  out  as  you  want  it.  I  don't  know  where 
I  shall  get  another  editor,  and  I  never  expect 
to  get  another  that  can  stack  up  good,  strong 
copy  like  you  can.  That  last  editorial  of  yours 
on  the  reorganization  of  the  legislature  hit  like 
a  sledge  hammer.  It's  being  commented  on 
all  over  the  State.  Excuse  me  for  using  strong 
language,  Mrs.  Timberly  —  but,  damme,  it 
simply  paralyzes  me  to  think  of  running  the 
(  Clipper  '  without  you  !  " 

Murkson  bustled  in  from  the  street ;  and 
when  Matthews,  wheeling  round  in  his  swivel 
chair  with  the  account  book  in  his  hand,  told 
him  of  Barbara's  intention,  Murkson  sank  with 
breathless  disgust  into  the  nearest  seat  and  stared 
at  her  with  the  reproachful  look  of  a  harried 
crane. 

"  First  opportunity  comes  my  way  I  '11  give 
Jack  Nixon  a  roast  for  that  in  the  locals,"  he 
growled.  "  It's  all  rot  and  nonsense.  Why, 
the  c  Clipper '  will  go  to  the  everlasting  bow 
wows  ! " 

Murkson  was  so  wrought  up  that,  when 
Matthews  began  to  cast  up  Barbara's  account, 
he  found  it  needful  to  go  on  into  the  compos 
ing-room,  where  Barbara  dimly  heard  him  voic- 

80 


Jack  Nixon's  Recollections 

ing  his  deep  disgust  and  swearing  like  a  train 
robber. 

He  came  out,  however,  followed  by  the  com 
positors,  to  bid  her  good-bye,  and  he  and  Mat 
thews  went  with  her  as  far  as  the  office  steps 
and  stood  outside  in  the  brisk,  cold  air  for  a 
final  word. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  wish  you  success,"  said  Mat 
thews.  "  Good-bye." 

"  It  '11  bu'st  the  c  Clipper ! '  "  groaned  Murk- 
son,  wringing  her  hand  until  her  fingers  ached. 

"  I  should  n't  go  if  I  did  n't  feel  that  I  must," 
she  answered,  almost  in  a  tone  of  apology.  "  I 
shall  never  forget  your  kindness.  Good-bye." 

They  retreated  into  the  office,  waving  their 
hands  to  her  ;  then  the  door,  caught  by  a  gust 
of  wind,  closed  with  a  bang  and  seemed  to  thrust 
her  out  into  the  world  again,  a  stranger. 


81 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE  JOURNEY   TO    THE    SUNSET   SEA 

ANOTHER  day  found  Barbara  in  a  tour 
ist  sleeper  which  was  storming  across  the 
barren  wastes  of  New  Mexico.  Ugly  adobe 
houses  squatted  in  arroyos  and  beside  the  few 
streams,  where  lazy  Mexicans,  half-breeds,  and 
Pueblo  Indians  lounged  and  chattered,  and  the 
shadow  on  the  dial  of  time  seemed  to  have  been 
turned  back  a  hundred  years. 

She  had  risen  early,  having  slept  fairly  well, 
and  felt  much  refreshed,  when  the  train  came 
to  a  stand-still.  A  freight  train,,  striking  a 
steer  at  the  entrance  of  a  long  trestle,  had  been 
hurled  into  a  defile  and  the  trestle  demolished. 

We  know  not  on  what  event,  great  or  small, 
hinges  our  future.  It  was  an  ordinary  accident, 
one  that  might  have  occurred  on  any  railway  in 
almost  any  land,  yet  it  was  destined  to  alter  the 
whole  course  of  Barbara's  life. 

As  there  was  no  likelihood  that  her  train 
could  proceed  for  hours,  she  descended  from 
the  sleeper  to  inspect  the  wreck.  Here,  where 
a  car,  laden  with  groceries  and  tobaccos,  lay 

82 


The  Journey  to  the  Sunset  Sea 

shattered,  the  male  passengers  were  helping 
themselves  to  cigars.  A  little  farther  on  a  con 
signment  of  bicycles  was  crushed  and  twisted 
into  scrap  iron.  The  odor  of  kerosene  from 
broken  tanks  impregnated  the  air.  But  no 
person  had  been  hurt,  as  Barbara  was  thank 
ful  to  learn. 

A  man  had  been  sent  to  the  nearest  telegraph 
office.  By  nine  o'clock  a  wrecking  train  came, 
and  then  another.  An  hour  later  two  passen 
ger  trains,  in  addition  to  the  one  that  had  borne 
Barbara,  were  hissing  and  simmering  beside  the 
defile.  One  was  from  the  East  and  the  other 
from  the  West ;  and  when  it  was  seen  that  the 
task  of  clearing  away  the  wreck  and  repairing 
the  trestle  was  likely  to  be  dragged  out  indefi 
nitely,  the  work  of  transferring  from  train  to 
train  was  begun. 

Barbara  saw  her  trunk  dragged  and  carried 
across  the  defile  by  swarthy,  Indian-like  work 
men,  and  followed  it  herself  with  considerable 
difficulty.  The  coach  from  the  West,  which 
she  was  now  to  occupy,  was  a  Santa  Fe  tourist 
sleeper,  as  hers  had  been ;  but  in  it  were  also 
placed  people  from  the  first-class  Pullman  of 
the  other  westward-bound  train. 

Hardly  was  Barbara  settled  in  her  new  posi 
tion  when  her  attention  was  drawn  to  a  lady 

83 


Barbara 

who,  with  her  three  children,  occupied  the 
opposite  double  berth.  The  youngest  child, 
a  mite  of  three  years,  in  stumbling  about  the 
floor  fell  and  hurt  herself  and  began  to  cry. 
Barbara,  who  happened  to  be  near,  picked  her 
up,  set  her  on  her  feet,  and  soothed  her  before 
the  mother  could  arrive. 

"  We  have  had  such  a  tiresome  wait,"  the 
woman  ventured,  with  a  kindly  smile.  "  Ruth 
is  quite  worn  out.  We  shall  all  be  glad,  I  'm 
sure,  when  we  're  again  in  motion.  The  trip 
to  California  is  quite  long  enough,  without 
such  delay/' 

"  Then  you  are  going  to  California  too  ?  " 
Barbara  asked  as  she  relinquished  the  child. 

"  Yes  ;  to  San  Diego." 

Barbara  could  not  forbear  a  further  question. 
People  are  not  stiffly  formal  in  the  West,  and 
the  ice  being  thus  broken  the  two  women  were 
soon  conversing  in  a  friendly  way. 

Barbara  learned  that  the  lady  was  Mrs. 
Palmer  Lake,  of  Denver,  that  her  husband 
was  a  Denver  merchant  and  mine  owner,  and 
that  they  had  a  winter  residence  in  San  Diego. 
It  was  easy  to  see  that  they  were  wealthy  peo 
ple,  though  Mrs.  Lake  was  travelling  without 
maid  or  nurse.  She  had  been  with  her  chil 
dren  in  the  Pullman  sleeper. 

84 


The  Journey  to  the  Sunset  Sea 

The  train  started  at  last,  and  at  the  first 
turn-table  the  engine  reversed  its  position  and 
the  sleepers  were  put  in  the  rear.  After  that 
the  long  westward  journey  began  again,  and 
soon  the  sandy  wastes  of  Eastern  Arizona  were 
about  them,  with  the  pine-clad  region  sur 
rounding  Flagstaff  just  ahead. 

As  large  herds  of  cattle  were  now  and  then 
seen,  Barbara  got  out  at  a  station  in  this  half- 
desert  country  and  tried  to  procure  some  milk 
for  the  Lake  children,  and  a  fruit-jar  in  which 
to  carry  it.  To  her  surprise  she  learned  that 
the  cows  were  never  milked,  and  that  a  glass 
fruit-jar  was  almost  an  unheard-of  thing.  It 
was  worse  than  being  "  ten  miles  from  a 
lemon/' 

For  more  than  two  days  and  nights  Barbara 
travelled  in  this  sleeper,  becoming  much  at 
tached  to  Mrs.  Lake  in  that  time,  and  gaining 
the  affection  of  the  children.  In  addition  to 
these  acquaintances  and  the  other  people  in  the 
coach,  there  were  many  things  to  interest  her 
and  distract  her  mind  somewhat  from  the  nature 
of  her  mission.  At  The  Needles,  that  queerly 
named  town  near  the  great  Colorado  River, 
Moqui  men  were  seen  working  as  section  hands, 
and  Moqui  Indian  women,  dark-faced  and 
repulsive-looking,  in  tatters  and  rags,  like  the 


Barbara 

beggars  who  came  to  town,  but  with  nothing 
of  the  "  silken  gown  "  in  their  appearance, 
besieged  the  passengers  with  offerings  of  gayly 
decorated  bows  and  arrows  and  other  articles 
of  Indian  workmanship. 

In  addition  to  the  human  conglomerate  of 
the  Southwest  were  the  seemingly  endless 
deserts  into  which  the  train  ran  after  leaving 
the  Colorado  River  behind.  Barbara  had  al 
ways  thought  of  California  as  the  land  of 
luxuriant  vegetation,  but  discovered  that  much 
of  it  is  as  barren  as  the  Great  Sahara.  Every 
where  stretched  those  treeless,  grassless  levels 
of  sand  and  pebbles,  of  sun-baked  mud  flats, 
of  snow-white  wastes  of  blinding  alkali,  all 
broken  and  shut  in  here  and  there  with  seamed 
and  corrugated  ridges  of  obsidian  and  black 
lava  and  heat-drenched  rocks,  burned  and 
seared  by  the  suns  of  unnumbered  years. 

Barbara  was  much  affected  by  the  lonely 
station  and  the  pathetic  little  graveyard  at  Bar- 
stow,  with  the  sand  drifting  across  it  as  if  try 
ing  to  hide  the  graves,  so  suggestive  of  the 
probable  fate  of  Roger.  She  was  glad  when 
the  desert  was  passed  and  the  train  began  to 
climb  the  San  Bernardino  Mountains  ;  for 
beyond  those  mountains,  as  she  was  told,  and 
as  she  soon  knew  for  herself,  the  sap  of  life 

86 


The  Journey  to  the  Sunset  Sea 

begins  to  run  again  in  the  veins  of  nature,  and 
the  world,  which  in  the  desert  seems  so  old, 
worn,  and  wrinkled,  puts  fresh  color  in  its 
face,  like  an  ancient  dame  who  thus  hides  the 
ravages  of  the  years,  and  becomes,  outwardly 
at  least,  young,  blooming,  and  beautiful. 

After  the  mountains  were  crossed  the  train 
whizzed  down  the  fair  valley  of  the  San  Joa- 
quin  into  the  citrus  belt,  with  its  sunshine  and 
its  laden  orange-trees,  and  on  and  on  through 
a  paradise  of  groves  and  flowers,  of  vine-clad 
homes,  smiling  villages,  and  thriving  cities;  and 
still  on  and  on,  at  first  westward  and  then 
southward,  until  there  came,  for  the  first  time 
to  Barbara,  the  flash  and  roar  of  the  billows  of 
the  mighty  Pacific. 

When  San  Diego  was  reached  in  the  late 
evening,  and  Barbara,  descending  from  the  train, 
saw  a  husband  rush  forward  to  greet  his  wife, 
the  sight  so  filled  her  with  thoughts  of  Roger 
that  she  almost  felt  he  must  be  waiting  for  her 
there.  And  when  he  did  not  appear  and  she 
climbed  at  last  into  a  cab  she  was  overwhelmed 
with  such  a  sense  of  helplessness  and  impotency 
as  she  had  never  before  experienced. 

Barbara  began  her  search  in  San  Diego  and 
the  near-by  towns  in  a  systematic  manner,  and 
made  it  as  thorough  as  circumstances  and  means 

87 


Barbara 

permitted.  She  visited  the  mission  churches 
of  Southern  California,  —  San  Luis  Rey,  San 
Juan  de  Capistrano,  and  all  the  others.  She 
patiently  inspected  the  registers  of  all  the 
hotels. 

Time  was  consumed  in  this,  and  the  earnings 
she  had  hoarded  in  Cripple  Creek  slipped 
away.  Apparently  there  was  nothing  for  her 
to  do  but  to  return  to  Cripple  Creek,  which 
was  now  in  the  icy  grip  of  winter.  She  did 
not  desire  to  do  that,  though  not  because  she 
feared  the  cold.  Patient  waiting  in  Cripple 
Creek  had  given  her  the  one  thread  that  seemed 
to  lead  in  the  direction  of  Roger.  It  had 
guided  her  to  San  Diego.  Patient  waiting  here 
might  give  another  clue,  and  lead  her  to  him 
at  last. 

With  her  funds  gone,  Barbara  began  to  look 
about  for  employment.  There  were  no  open 
ings  anywhere.  The  bursting  of  the  "  boom  " 
bubble  had  made  places  scarce  and  applicants 
many.  In  this  dilemma  she  recalled  the  in 
vitation  of  Mrs.  Palmer  Lake,  which  had  been 
as  emphatic  as  it  had  been  kindly : 

"  If  I  can  ever  be  of  assistance  to  you,  don't 
fail  to  come  to  me." 

Barbara  felt  the  need  of  assistance  now,  and 
it  seemed  the  part  of  wisdom  to  seek  the  aid 


The  Journey  to  the  Sunset  Sea 

of  one  so  wealthy  and  influential.  A  few 
words  from  Mrs.  Lake  in  her  favor,  or  a  letter 
of  introduction,  might  aid  in  securing  a  position, 
which,  if  not  so  good  as  the  one  she  Jiad  held 
in  the  "  Clipper  "  office,  would  yet  give  her  the 
means  of  living,  and  assist  her  in  a  further 
effort  to  find  Roger. 

Mrs.  Lake's  winter  residence  was  back  on 
the  hills  in  the  landward  suburb  of  the  little 
city,  and  was  reached  by  a  trolley  line,  hence 
was  not  difficult  of  access.  It  was  a  handsome 
place,  with  ample  flower-filled  grounds,  as 
Barbara  had  time  to  observe  as  she  approached 
the  door.  Eucalyptus,  and  Chinese  pepper- 
trees  with  their  bright  scarlet  berries  showing 
amid  the  green  of  their  willow-like  leaves,  bor 
dered  the  streets  and  added  to  the  charm  of 
the  place. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Lake,  as  she 
greeted  Barbara,  "  why  did  n't  you  come  to  me 
long  ago?  I  have  thought  of  you  so  many 
times,  and  wondered  what  had  become  of  you." 

This  greeting  made  it  easy  for  Barbara  to 
ask  the  favor  which  had  brought  her  there ; 
so,  in  as  brief  a  way  as  possible,  she  stated  the 
nature  of  her  errand. 

Mrs.  Lake  was  a  slight  woman,  with  a  cer 
tain  air  of  timidity  and  a  pleasant  motherly 

89 


Barbara 

face.  She  took  a  seat  in  a  large  arm-chair 
as  Barbara  talked,  and  listened  with  much 
interest. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  that  I  'm  selfish 
enough  to  be  glad  that  you  failed  to  find  a 
position.  I  Ve  been  looking  round  for  a  com 
petent  governess  for  the  children,  and  if — " 

She  hesitated  and  searched  Barbara's  face. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Lake,  would  you  give  me  the 
place  ? "  was  Barbara's  instant  question,  her 
fine  gray  eyes  lighting  with  enthusiasm. 

Thus  it  was  settled.  Barbara  became  chil 
dren's  governess  at  Mrs.  Lake's,  and  entered 
upon  a  routine  that  was  very  pleasant.  Mrs. 
Lake  was  leading  a  quiet  life,  and  Barbara  was 
admitted  to  the  family  circle  on  terms  of  friendly 
intimacy  and  equality.  Her  work  occupied 
much  of  her  time,  and  enabled  her  better  to 
bear  the  new  disappointment  that  was  hers 
because  of  this  latest  failure  in  the  search  for 
Roger.  Mrs.  Lake  was  kind  and  sympathetic, 
and  the  children,  if  somewhat  spoiled,  were 
attractive  and  intelligent.  As  for  Mr.  Lake, 
Barbara  did  not  see  him  at  all,  as  his  business 
interests  held  him  in  Denver. 


90 


CHAPTER   VII 

GILBERT    BREAM 

INTO  the  quiet  of  this  home  and  into  the 
new  quiet  of  Barbara's  life  came  a  man 
who  was  destined  to  influence  strongly  the 
course  of  her  future.  This  man  was  Gilbert 
Bream,  Mrs.  Lake's  brother.  Bream  arrived 
from  Denver  without  heralding  his  coming, 
and  Barbara  met  him  for  the  first  time  at  the 
breakfast  table.  She  had  heard  Mrs.  Lake 
speak  of  him  in  a  general  way,  of  his  mines 
and  his  property  interests  in  Denver,  but  had 
scarcely  bestowed  on  him  a  thought  until  now, 
when  he  stood  before  her,  bowing  and  acknowl 
edging  the  introduction  given  by  Mrs.  Lake. 

Mrs.  Lake  was  both  proud  and  fond  of  her 
brother.  With  sisterly  forbearance  she  ignored 
his  faults.  Somewhere  in  the  past,  as  she 
knew,  there  had  been  a  love  affair.  His  heart 
had  been  "  broken "  then,  but  since  very 
effectively  mended.  That  unfortunate  love 
affair  had  harmed  him  in  another  way,  how 
ever,  —  it  had  taught  him  to  look  on  most 

91 


Barbara 

women  as  weak  or  mercenary,  on  some  as  both. 
There  was  only  one  woman  in  the  world  in 
whom  he  had  implicit  faith,  and  that  one  was 
his  sister.  Mrs.  Lake  noticed  the  glance  of 
admiration  which  he  bent  on  Barbara,  and  was 
not  pleased.  She  recalled  that  old  love  affair. 

Gilbert  Bream's  manners  were  unaffected  and 
Western,  with  a  suggestion  of  the  out-of-doors. 
Yet  he  liked  luxurious  things,  books  and  pic 
tures,  and  had  theories  about  literature  and  art, 
as  Barbara  discovered  during  the  conversation 
of  the  morning. 

The  next  time  Barbara  met  Gilbert  Bream 
face  to  face  and  on  terms  of  apparent  equality 
was  at  Coronado,  one  of  the  pleasure  resorts 
of  San  Diego  people.  She  had  driven  with 
Mrs.  Lake  to  the  peninsula  by  way  of  the 
ferry,  thus  crossing  an  arm  of  beautiful  San 
Diego  Bay,  thence  up  through  palm-bordered 
drives  to  the  hotel  and  the  ocean. 

The  glorious  California  sunshine  spilled 
down  through  the  haze  of  the  spray,  and  the 
waves  rolling  in  in  great  white  surges  broke 
thunderously  on  the  crescent  beach.  While 
sitting  with  the  children  on  the  white  algae- 
littered  sand,  under  the  shade  of  a  big  sun- 
umbrella,  a  shadow  fell  at  Barbara's  feet,  and, 
looking  up,  she  beheld  Gilbert  Bream. 

92 


Gilbert  Bream 

"  Let  me  enjoy  this  with  you,"  he  said  with 
a  smile,  seating  himself  at  her  side.  "  I  don't 
know  where  there  is  another  ocean  view  as 
pretty  as  this." 

Barbara,  glancing  toward  the  hotel,  saw  Mrs. 
Lake  approaching  leisurely.  She  smiled  back 
at  Bream,  agreed  that  the  view  was  fine,  and 
they  began  to  talk.  She  found  it  very  pleas 
ant  to  sit  there  and  converse  with  this  man, 
who  seemed  to  bring  with  him  so  much  of  that 
world  of  which  she  was  ignorant.  She  said 
little  herself,  but  proved  a  delightful  listener, 
a  smile  on  her  lips  and  the  color  coming  and 
going  in  her  cheeks. 

Though  Barbara  did  not  know  it,  she  had 
changed  greatly  since  the  days  of  her  "claim" 
life  on  the  miragy  plains  of  Kansas.  She  had 
seemed  then  little  more  than  a  girl ;  now  she 
was  a  woman,  with  a  maturer  beauty  and  a 
more  entrancing  personality.  Her  mental 
horizon  was  broader  and  more  sympathetic, 
her  emotions  not  so  tumultuous  but  deeper. 
Both  her  outward  beauty  and  her  inner  life 
had  gained  much  more  than  they  had  lost. 

"  Enjoying  yourselves  !  "  said  Mrs.  Lake, 
as  she  came  up. 

Bream  laughed  in  his  whole-hearted  way  and 
boyishly  tossed  some  sand  into  the  air. 

93 


Barbara 

"  Never  better,"  he  admitted. 

"  An*  we  'se  most  got  our  house  done/'  said 
Ruth,  spading  away  with  childish  enthusiasm. 

Gordon,  aged  eight,  kicked  his  heels  in  the 
air  and  shied  a  pebble  at  a  swooping  gull. 

c  There  was  a  time,"  said  Bream,  "  when  an 
ocean,  or  at  any  rate  a  sea,  must  have  rolled 
just  that  way  across  your  plains  of  Kansas, 
Mrs.  Timberly." 

She  laughed. 

"  I  don't  remember  it ;  I  Ve  heard  of  it, 
though  !  One  of  my  Kansas  neighbors  in  dig 
ging  a  well  came  upon  some  large  bones  that 
were  thought  to  be  representative  of  old  marine 
life." 

Her  face  clouded  at  that  remembrance  of 
Roger  and  Kansas.  Bream  did  not  notice  it, 
and  continued  to  talk  of  the  sea,  and  its  won 
ders,  past  and  present.  As  yet  he  knew  noth 
ing  of  Roger. 

Ruth  finished  her  "  house  "  and  was  ready 
then  to  abandon  it,  and  all  walked  together 
down  the  peninsula  just  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  flooding  surges,  the  children  chasing 
into  the  surf  after  shells  and  seaweed. 

Sandpipers  flitted  on  before  them,  and  white 
and  gray  pelicans  swooped  and  circled  in  the 
midst  of  the  crying  gulls.  Portuguese  fishing- 

94 


Gilbert  Bream 

boats  swung  on  the  tide  with  Australian  and 
English  steamers  in  the  bay,  or  tacked  out 
ward  across  the  shining,  white-capped  sea 
toward  their  fishing-grounds.  Southward  lay 
the  blue  mountains  of  Lower  California  ;  north 
ward,  near  at  hand,  gleaming  like  marble  in  its 
coating  of  white  paint,  and  flashing  back  the 
sunshine  as  if  it  were  some  glittering  stronghold 
of  the  enchanted  land  of  childhood,  the  great 
winter  hostelry  known  as  the  Hotel  del  Coro- 
nado  lifted  its  imposing  front;  while  on  the 
landward  side,  across  the  bay,  the  little  city 
nestled  and  dreamed  by  the  margins  of  its 
white  asphalt  streets,  with  the  drowsing  bare 
hills  behind  it  showing  an  emerald  tint  from 
the  effects  of  the  winter  rains. 

A  walk  by  the  sea  is  an  effective  appetizer. 

"  I  'm  hungry,"  Gordon  announced. 

"  Here  's  another  boy  that 's  hungry,"  said 
Bream,  referring  to  himself.  "We'll  have 
something  to  eat." 

There  was  a  luncheon  in  the  hotel  ;  after 
which  they  inspected  the  curiosities  in  the  hotel 
museum,  and  followed  this  by  another  short 
walk  along  the  sounding  beach.  Mrs.  Lake 
did  not  fail  to  notice  that  Bream  seemed  bent 
on  prolonging  as  much  as  possible  Barbara's 
stay  on  the  peninsula. 

95 


Barbara 

As  for  Barbara,  she  had  seldom  so  enjoyed 
herself.  An  unwonted  lightness  of  spirit  buoyed 
her.  She  was  not  troubled  by  any  sense  of 
inferiority  to  these  people ;  it  was  a  mere  mat 
ter  of  diverse  circumstances  that  had  given  her 
poverty  and  them  riches.  And  as  wealth 
sometimes  comes  easily  and  quickly  in  the 
West,  —  it  had  come  that  way  to  Gilbert  Bream 
and  to  Mrs.  Lake,  —  in  the  friendly  intercourse 
of  those  who  have  and  those  who  lack,  social 
distinctions  are  often  forgotten. 

This  pleasant  afternoon  at  Coronado  Beach 
was  followed  by  others.  Barbara  seldom  went 
anywhere  now  with  Mrs.  Lake  and  the  chil 
dren,  that  Bream  did  not  contrive  to  become 
one  of  the  company.  He  planned  little  excur 
sions  for  them,  —  to  Old  Town,  Pacific  Beach, 
National  City,  the  curious  sea-caves  of  La  Jolla. 
They  enjoyed  drives  together  over  the  hills 
that  bulwark  the  trim  little  city  by  the  sea,  — 
hills  becoming  daily  more  fresh  and  vernal,  but 
which,  when  first  seen  by  Barbara,  were  wastes 
of  treeless  aridity.  They  picnicked  in  the 
canons  where  the  manzanita  scrub  sprawls  over 
the  rocks  and  the  gnarled,  squat  oaks  make 
deeper  the  shadows,  and  they  boated  on  the 
tide-swept  bay.  Ostensibly  Gilbert  Bream  was 
exercising  his  ingenuity  in  providing  pleasure 


Gilbert  Bream 

for  Mrs.  Lake  and  the  children.  Barbara  ac 
companied  them  because  she  was  the  gover 
ness.  To  all  seeming  it  would  have  been  the 
same  to  Bream  if  she  had  been  left  behind. 

As  deception  of  any  kind  was  foreign  to 
Barbara's  nature,  she  did  not  try  to  conceal  the 
pleasure  which  these  trips  gave  her.  She  was 
fond  of  outings,  and  this  fondness  had  never 
been  so  gratified.  And  she  liked  Bream. 
That  was  the  word  in  her  thought  —  she  had 
loved  Roger.  As  the  governess  of  the  chil 
dren  she  rewarded  Bream  with  a  commendatory 
warmth  of  feeling  for  his  goodness  and  kind 
ness  of  heart.  She  never  forgot  that  she  was 
merely  the  governess  ;  but  at  the  same  time 
she  was  charmingly  frank  and  cordial,  not 
thinking  to  conceal  her  delight  in  his  conver 
sation  and  company. 

Bream  was  a  good  talker.  He  had  read  and 
travelled  much.  Roger  lost  by  comparison, 
for  Roger  had  often  been  dull  and  inclined  to 
moodiness.  Roger  had  a  thin  chest,  a  sallow 
face,  and  sunken  eye  ;  Bream's  bronzed  features 
were  clear-cut  and  almost  handsome. 

That  he  was  something  more  than  a  carpet 
knight,  —  that  he  had  a  quick  eye,  a  firm  hand, 
coolness  and  courage  under  difficult  and  peril 
ous  circumstances,  —  events  hastened  to  show. 
7  97 


Barbara 

Barbara  was  given  a  view  of  this  unexpected 
side  of  his  character  by  an  afternoon  sail  be 
yond  the  harbor  in  a  cat-boat. 

An  off-shore  breeze  and  an  outward  algae- 
drifting  tide  had  borne  them  seaward  through 
the  channel.  Portuguese  fishing-boats  were 
tacking  here  and  there,  the  waves  were  flat 
tened  into  a  gentle  swell,  and  the  blue  Pacific 
mounted  before  them  to  the  western  sky. 
Point  Loma  light-house  stood  out  clear  and 
distinct  in  a  crystalline  atmosphere. 

After  a  pleasant  run  up  the  coast  Bream 
brought  the  cat-boat  about,  headed  it  in  the 
direction  of  the  channel-,  and  cast  anchor  at  a 
point  where  he  knew  there  was  good  fishing. 
Soon  baited  hooks  were  in  the  water  and  the 
sport  had  begun. 

The  children  did  most  of  the  fishing,  how 
ever.  Bream  baited  a  hook  or  removed  a  fish 
now  and  then,  but  he  forgot  his  own  line  and 
seldom  caught  anything.  Fishes  big  and  little 
nibbled  away,  unnoticed,  the  strips  of  shark's 
flesh  that  served  as  the  lure,  and  more  than  half 
the  time  his  line  swung  baitless  in  the  water. 
He  was  talking  to  Barbara,  who  did  not  care 
to  fish,  but  who  greatly  enjoyed  hearing  him 
ramble  on  about  fishing-trips  in  Cuban  waters, 
of  shooting  flying-fish  as  one  shoots  birds  on 

98 


Gilbert  Bream 

the  wing,  farther  up  the  California  coast,  and 
of  hour-long  struggles  with  the  giant  tarpon 
of  Florida. 

Mrs.  Lake  listened  with  a  commendatory 
smile.  It  contented  her  to  know  that  the  chil 
dren  were  having  a  delightful  day.  She  was 
having  a  delightful  day  herself,  propped  with 
soft  cushions,  and  gazing  at  the  blue  sky  over 
head  when  she  was  not  looking  at  her  brother. 

"And  that  accident  you  had  at  the  barra 
cudas  grounds !  "  she  said  by  way  of  stimulat 
ing  reminder. 

"  Yes  ;  that  was  a  bit  thrilling,  but  it  came 
out  all  right/'  he  said.  "  We  were  just  off 
there  beyond  Point  Loma  and  heading  — " 

He  lifted  himself  on  the  thwart  with  point 
ing  finger  turned  to  the  sea,  but  the  sentence 
died  on  his  lips.  Barbara,  who  had  been  reclin 
ing  against  the  side  of  the  boat  with  fingers 
trailing  in  the  water,  observed  the  curious 
break  and  roused  herself;  her  senses  had 
been  in  a  dreamy  lull.  Mrs.  Lake  looked 
up  expectantly,  and  Bream  struggled  to  his 
feet. 

The  fishing-boats  had  all  disappeared  save 
one,  which  was  flying  toward  the  harbor  like  a 
frightened  gull.  Cat's-paws  were  crinkling  the 
water  seaward ;  behind  the  cat's-paws  chased 

99 


Barbara 

an  open-mouthed  greenish  cloud.  It  seemed 
to  revolve  from  the  centre  outward,  its  frayed 
top  casting  off  feathery  rolls  that  flew  on  its 
front,  while  its  base  churned  the  sea  into  foam. 

In  the  sleepy  swell  that  rocked  the  cat-boat 
there  was  no  portent  of  impending  peril.  The 
cloud  was  not  yet  close  enough  to  make  its 
influence  felt.  It  had  apparently  risen  with 
incredible  rapidity,  though  the  disappearance 
of  the  fishing-boats  showed  that  by  them  its 
coming  had  been  for  some  time  discerned. 
The  reflection  that  the  sea  is  always  treacher 
ous,  and  that  he  had  dawdled  into  forgetful  ness 
of  this  fact,  gave  Bream  an  uneasy  qualm. 
After  a  glance  landward  and  at  the  channel 
he  drew  a  knife  and  hastily  cut  away  the  line 
that  held  the  anchor. 

"  If  you  will  help  me  to  reef  the  sail !  "  he 
said,  addressing  Barbara.  "  That  squall  is 
coming  up  pretty  fast.  Sister  mine,  get  into 
the  centre  of  the  boat,  low  down,  with  the 
children." 

His  sentences  were  staccato,  as  if  both  time 
and  breath  were  precious,  but  he  was  not  flur 
ried.  Mrs.  Lake,  with  face  grown  pale,  hur 
ried  the  children  into  the  middle  of  the  boat. 
Barbara  sprang  to  Bream's  assistance.  For  a 
moment  he  seemed  in  doubt  whether  to  run 


IOO 


Gilbert  Bream 

for  the  shore  and  endeavor  to  beach  the  boat 
in  what  certainly  would  have  been  a  dangerous 
surf,  or  to  head  away  for  the  farther  channel  in 
an  effort  to  gain  the  sheltered  bay.  His  hesi 
tancy  passed. 

"  Double  this  in,"  he  said,  "  and  tie  the  reef- 
points  ;  "  and  Barbara,  who  knew  nothing  about 
such  things,  but  who  was  quick  to  catch  an 
idea,  assisted  him  in  folding  together  a  section 
of  the  canvas  and  in  tying  the  cords  to  hold 
the  reef  in  place.  Then  another  reef  was  put 
in,  and  she  helped  him  to  hoist  and  set  the 
reduced  sail. 

"  We  're  all  right  now,"  he  said,  with  another 
glance  at  the  storm  cloud.  "  If  you  will  sit  on 
the  rail  over  there,  Mrs.  Timberly,  as  ballast, 
it  may  aid.  There,  that 's  right ;  now,  we  '11 
run  for  it." 

Ruth  began  to  cry ;  Mrs.  Lake  was  fright 
ened  and  the  children  were  excited. 

"  Sit  still  in  the  middle  of  the  boat  there," 
he  said  sharply ;  "  I  tell  you  we  're  all  right !  " 

He  had  taken  the  tiller,  and  putting  the 
boat  about  he  pointed  the  bow  at  the  channel 
entrance.  A  breeze  that  was  forerunner  of  the 
squall  heeled  the  boat  over  and  sent  it  flying 
through  the  waves,  which  curled  away  from 
the  bow  and  dropped  behind  in  a  trail  of  hiss- 

101 


Barbara 

ing  white  foam.  Barbara,  studying  Bream's 
face,  saw  the  features  relax  in  a  smile  of  grim 
determination  which  told  her  more  than  any 
thing  else  how  serious  he  considered  their  situ 
ation.  He  glanced  at  her  as  he  shifted  the 
tiller  and  perhaps  read  her  discovery  of  his 
thought. 

"  I  think  we  can  make  the  harbor  before  the 
squall  strikes,"  he  said,  reassuringly.  "There 
is  no  need  yet  for  alarm.  Even  if  we  should 
fail  to  make  it,  I  've  weathered  worse  squalls 
in  smaller  boats.  This  is  a  staunch  little  thing 
and  handles  well." 

Mrs.  Lake's  blue  eyes  revealed  the  fear  she 
strove  to  conceal  from  her  children.  Barbara 
sat  crouched  on  the  rail  abaft  the  mast  on  the 
windward  side,  Bream  being  on  the  same  side, 
with  one  hand  holding  the  tiller  and  the  other 
the  sheet  of  the  sail.  She  was  pale,  but  there 
was  not  in  her  eyes  the  deep  look  of  fear  so 
observable  in  those  of  Mrs.  Lake.  Not  that 
she  regarded  the  approach  of  the  squall  undis 
mayed,  but  she  was  of  more  courageous  mould 
and  perhaps  trusted  more  implicitly  in  Gilbert 
Bream's  seamanship,  and  she  was  not,  like 
Mrs.  Lake,  a  mother  with  the  lives  of  her 
children  imperilled. 

The    cloud,   drawing    ever  nearer,  took  on 

IO2 


Gilbert  Bream 

a  misty  front  that  hid  its  rolling  folds  and 
greenish  mouth.  Thunder  began  to  break 
from  it,  and  it  seemed  dissolving  into  rain, 
which,  as  it  hissed  downward,  the  sea  rose  up 
to  meet.  The  breeze  freshened  into  a  half  gale, 
flattening  out  the  waves  at  first,  then  piling 
them  up;  and  the  bow  of  the  boat,  cutting  and 
plunging  through  them,  threw  across  the  rail  a 
drenching,  salt  spray.  Barbara,  sitting  so  far 
forward,  caught  the  full  force  of  it ;  but,  though 
she  gasped  now  and  then  as  the  spray  went 
flying  over  her,  she  clung  to  her  position,  not 
deeming  it  wise  to  make  a  change. 

Gordon  began  to  cry,  adding  his  voice  to 
that  of  Ruth.  Alice,  who  had  reached  the 
mature  age  of  eleven  and  was  by  nature  staid 
and  womanly,  tried  with  her  mother  to  quiet 
the  crying  children. 

"We're  'most  in  now,"  said  Alice.  "I 
think  I  can  see  the  ships  inside  —  don't  you, 
Gordon  ?  Hold  on  tight  to  mamma  and 
we're  all  right." 

"  We  're  all  right  !  "  shouted  Bream  without 
looking  at  them.  He  was  giving  his  entire 
attention  to  the  management  of  the  boat,  crit 
ically  eyeing  the  sail  and  the  sea,  the  tiller 
moving  now  and  then  under  his  skilful  hand. 
"  Five  minutes  more  —  " 
103 


Barbara 

A  big,  green  wave  climbed  over  the  bow 
and  tore  at  Barbara  as  if  it  meant  to  pluck  her 
from  the  rail,  and  she  did  not  hear  the  comple 
tion  of  the  sentence.  The  wave  shook  itself 
free,  thrust  a  white  hand  up  at  the  staggering 
sail  and  rolled  past ;  and  Barbara,  looking 
ahead  through  the  mist  that  began  to  envelop 
everything,  saw  familiar  landmarks  and  knew 
that  the  harbor  entrance  was  just  ahead. 

Bream's  announcement  was  premature.  The 
squall  bore  down  now  with  a  hissing  scream ; 
and  when  it  struck,  Barbara  was  sure  they  were 
all  going  to  the  bottom  together.  She  saw  the 
sail  fly  by.  It  had  been  torn  from  Bream's 
hand,  or  he  had  let  go  of  the  sheet  as  a  measure 
of  safety.  For  a  half  minute  the  cat-boat 
seemed  buried  under  a  mountain  of  water ; 
then  it  righted  and  flew  up  the  channel  at  race 
horse  speed,  the  sail  splitting  and  streaming 
out  before  like  the  broken  wing  of  a  bird. 

The  din  of  the  storm  was  deafening,  the 
spray  blinding.  Barbara  became  ^conscious 
that  the  boat  was  half  full  of  water,  in  which 
Mrs.  Lake  and  the  children  appeared  to  be 
floating.  She  indistinctly  heard  Bream  caution 
Mrs.  Lake  against  trying  to  change  her  posi 
tion.  Then  she  realized  that  she  was  dread 
fully  frightened,  thoroughly  drenched,  and 

104 


Gilbert  Bream 

shaking  like  a  leaf.  Hardly  had  this  realiza 
tion  come  to  her  when  the  storm  seemed  to 
abate  something  of  its  violence.  The  angry 
front  of  the  squall  had  struck  and  passed,  and 
the  enclosing  arm  of  the  harbor  was  beginning 
to  make  its  influence  felt. 

When  the  lump  went  out  of  her  throat  and 
the  water  out  of  her  eyes  Barbara  looked  to 
ward  Bream.  He  appeared  to  be  clinging  to 
the  tiller  like  a  drowning  man,  but  she  in 
stantly  heard  him  speak  again  to  Mrs.  Lake. 
Then  she  felt  the  boat  rise  on  a  more  level 
keel.  A  moment  later  Bream  laughed  ner 
vously  and  in  a  rather  loud  and  unnatural 
way. 

"That  was  a  bit  scary,"  he  admitted;  "but 
a  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile  !  We  '11  be  at  the 
landing  in  a  little  while  now.  Fortunately  this 
rain  can't  make  us  any  wetter." 

The  waves  as  well  as  the  wind  were  driving 
them  into  the  harbor  —  the  gale  was  still  on 
and  the  rain  falling.  Seeing  that  it  was  safe  to 
do  so,  Barbara  climbed  down  from  the  rail  and 
tried  to  bail  out  some  of  the  water  that  was  so 
distressing  Mrs.  Lake  and  the  children. 

"  It 's  no  use  to  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Lake, 
clinging  nervously  to  a  thwart  and  with  one 
arm  round  Ruth.  She  was  almost  crying. 
10$ 


Barbara 

<c  You  '11  never  get  me  into  a  cat-boat  again, 
nor  any  other  kind  of  a  boat  —  never ! " 

With  difficulty  Bream  brought  the  cat-boat 
into  the  lee  of  Spreckels'  wharf.  Out  in  the 
stream  vessels  were  jumping  at  the  ends  of 
their  cables  like  scared  horses  tugging  at  their 
halters ;  behind  the  wharf  smaller  boats  were 
tossing  wildly ;  the  rain  was  pounding  at  the 
sooty  timbers  ;  ashore  the  trees  were  writhing 
and  threshing  in  the  wind.  A  rope  was  thrown 
to  the  cat-boat  from  a  tug. 

"  Catch  it ! "  said  Bream  to  Barbara  in  a 
quick,  commanding  tone. 

She  caught  it,  clinging  with  one  hand  to  the 
mast.  Over  the  bow  the  torn  sail  dragged  and 
fluttered.  Having  caught  the  rope  she  held 
it  taut,  and  the  tossing  cat-boat  was  drawn  to 
the  tug,  Bream  leaping  forward  quickly  to  re 
lieve  her,  as  the  two  vessels  seemed  about  to 
pound  into  each  other.  Men  on  the  tug 
leaned  over  to  take  Bream  by  the  hand. 

"The  others  first,"  he  said,  as  he  tried  to 
hold  the  boats  together. 

The  man  stretched  a  hand  to  Barbara ;  but 
she  assisted  the  children  to  flounder  to  the  bow, 
where  they  were  seized  by  the  men  of  the  tug 
and  whisked  to  its  deck.  Mrs.  Lake  followed 
the  children ;  Barbara  came  next,  then  Bream. 
106 


Gilbert  Bream 

The  cat-boat  drifted  round  to  the  stern  of  the 
tug  and  was  there  made  fast. 

On  board  the  tug  they  remained  until  the 
waves  fell,  then  succeeded  in  reaching  the 
wharf.  Bream  telephoned  for  a  carriage,  and 
they  were  driven  home,  Mrs.  Lake  wet  and 
miserable,  yet  thankful.  The  children  had  al 
ready  recovered  from  their  fright ;  Gordon  still 
clung  to  a  small  fish  which  he  had  hooked  and 
taken  from  the  water  himself. 

"  I  was  a  bit  scared  at  the  worst  of  it," 
Bream  admitted  to  Barbara.  "  But  it 's  all 
over  now,  and  we  '11  all  feel  better  if  we  can 
forget  it.  I  suppose  I  was  to  blame.  I  did  n't 
dream  of  such  a  thing  —  we've  been  having 
such  beautiful  weather  ;  but  I  ought  to  have 
been  watching  for  it  just  the  same." 

Barbara  was  in  no  condition  for  personal 
mental  analysis.  She  was  too  wet  and  chilled, 
and  she  knew  she  had  been  badly  scared.  But 
she  was  safe  now,  and  she  would  soon  be  com 
fortable.  She  had  a  feeling  that  Bream  had 
saved  her  life.  He  had  shown  himself  to  be 
quick  and  resourceful.  He  had  assumed  the 
guidance  of  everything,  and  once  or  twice  had 
been  even  harshly  commanding.  She  had  not 
known  he  could  be  that,  and  it  had  pleased 
her.  The  harshness  was  born  of  necessity,  not 
107 


Barbara 

anger;  it  had  been  merely  quick  emphasis,  not 
scolding.  And  a  woman  is  pleased  when  a 
man  does  the  things  that  ought  to  be  done, 
imperiously,  but  without  fault-finding.  Bream 
had  done  that. 


108 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   FALL   OF   CASTLE    CONTENT 

BEING  fond  of  shooting,  Gilbert  Bream 
went  often  into  the  canons  and  out 
on  the  hills  to  get  a  crack  at  the  blue-backed, 
plume-crested  California  quails.  From  one  of 
these  trips  he  was  brought  home  with  a  twisted 
ankle  that  confined  him  to  the  house.  Chained 
thus  to  a  chair  he  chafed  like  a  caged  animal. 

"  I  never  was  made  to  be  housed  up  like  a 
monkey,"  he  said  to  Barbara. 

The  thought  of  Gilbert  Bream  resembling  a 
monkey  in  any  way  made  her  laugh. 

"It  is  hard.  Perhaps  you  would  like  me  to 
read  to  you  ?  I  have  n't  anything  to  do  just 


now." 


The    suggestion    was    invited    by    a   glance 
Bream  gave  at  a  book  which  lay  open  near  him. 

"  I  've  been  wanting  to  ask  you  to,"  he  con 
fessed,  with  a  look  which  she  did  not  under 
stand.  "  I  heard  you  reading  to  the  children 
yesterday.  You  have  an  excellent  reading 
voice,  Mrs.  Timberly." 
109 


Barbara 

"  Now  you  flatter  me,"  she  said,  taking  up 
the  book. 

But  she  read  to  him,  and  under  the  influence 
of  the  music  of  her  voice  the  demon  of  unrest 
seemed  to  go  out  of  him  as  it  did  out  of  Saul 
at  the  touch  of  the  harp  of  David. 

"  I  think  I  should  enjoy  laming  both  ankles, 
just  to  get  you  to  read  to  me/'  he  declared, 
when  he  had  listened  awhile.  "  When  you 
read  a  thing  its  meaning  is  clearer  to  me,  more 
luminous  I  might  say,  than  if  I  had  read  it 
myself.  Go  on,  please." 

"Would  you  like  more  of  this?"  she 
asked. 

"  You  might  try  Tennyson,"  he  suggested. 
"Not  'In  Memoriam.'  I  waded  through  that 
myself  the  other  day.  Try  his  shorter 
pieces." 

Barbara  took  the  volume  of  Tennyson  from 
the  table  and  began  to  read  some  of  the  briefer 
poems,  while  Bream,  lounging  in  his  easy- 
chair,  studied  her  face  in  its  delightful  play 
of  emotions  induced  by  the  sentiments  of  the 
verses.  She  was  reading  "  Sir  Launcelot  and 
Queen  Guinevere,"  which  she  had  not  read 
before,  and  when  she  came  to  the  last  verse 
she  hesitated  and  stumbled,  feeling  Bream's 
eyes  fixed  on  her  face : 
no 


The  Fall  of  Castle  Content 

"  As  she  fled  fast  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  played, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid  : 
She  looked  so  lovely  as  she  swayed 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips." 

She  turned  to  another  poem,  which  was  so 
short  that  she  thought  she  could  sense  its 
entire  significance  at  a  glance.  It  was  "  The 
Eagle,'*  unmatched  as  a  brief  word-picture. 
She  did  not  see  that  there  might  be  a  personal 
suggestion  in  this ;  for,  when  from  his  moun 
tain  walls  the  eagle  falls  like  a  thunderbolt  of 
the  skies,  his  far-seeing  eye  is  fixed  upon  his 
prey. 

"He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands  ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ringed  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

"  The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls  ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls." 

There    was    a    curious,    inquiring    light     in 

Bream's    dark    eyes    as    he   studied    Barbara's 

face.     When   at  last  she  tired  of  reading  he 

talked   with    her,    reclining   in    his   chair  with 

in 


Barbara 

his  ankle  supported  on  cushions.  He  looked 
quite  the  invalid,  except  for  the  healthy  color 
of  his  face ;  and  Barbara,  who  could  not  help 
feeling  that  he  was  suffering,  gave  him  a  large 
measure  of  sympathy. 

The  reading  was  continued  the  next  day,  and 
for  several  days  thereafter,  sometimes  within 
the  house,  sometimes  out  on  the  wide  piazza. 
Mere  acquaintance  became  friendship  and  com- 
radery.  So  it  seemed  to  Barbara.  Without 
wondering  why,  she  found  herself  dreamily 
contented  in  his  presence.  If  she  had  tried 
to  analyze  the  source  of  her  contentment  she 
would  have  assigned  it  to  the  fact  that  she 
was  in  possession  of  something  she  had  not 
had  since  Roger's  disappearance,  —  a  real  home, 
with  congenial  and  sympathetic  friends.  Cer 
tainly  she  did  not  at  that  time  look  on  Gilbert 
Bream  as  a  possible  lover. 

Though  she  had  not  forgotten  Roger,  her 
grief  had  lost  something  of  its  bitterness.  She 
awoke  one  day  to  a  sudden  realization  of  this. 
Bream  was  talking,  and  something  he  said 
touched  an  old,  sweet  memory.  Roger's  face 
rose  before  her  as  clearly  as  on  the  day  she 
had  beheld  it  last,  his  voice  sounded  in  her 
ears,  and  his  last  kiss  trembled  on  her  lips. 
Leaving  Bream  abruptly  and  with  a  clumsy 


112 


The  Fall  of  Castle  Content 

apology,  she  fled  to  her  room,  lest  he  should 
notice  the  re-aroused  anguish  she  could  hardly 
hide. 

Barbara  had  been  strangely  reluctant  to 
speak  of  Roger  to  Gilbert  Bream.  She  had 
avoided  all  discussion  of  her  past,  and  from 
Bream's  manner  she  did  not  believe  he  had 
any  knowledge  on  the  subject  beyond  a  hazy 
idea  that  she  was  a  widow.  Without  having 
any  particular  reason  for  the  conviction,  she 
felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Lake  had  not  yet  enlight 
ened  him  ;  though  just  why  this  silence  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Lake  should  seem  a  favor  she 
would  have  been  puzzled  to  say. 

Barbara  remained  in  her  room  the  greater 
part  of  the  afternoon,  pleading  a  headache ;  and 
there  was  a  whiteness  in  her  face  and  a  look  of 
distress  in  her  eyes  when  she  reappeared  that 
left  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Lake  that 
she  had  suffered  severely.  But  she  seemed 
quite  herself  the  next  morning,  and  took  up 
her  work  as  children's  governess  with  much 
of  her  oldtime  zest,  even  if  her  conduct  toward 
Bream  showed  some  slight  traces  of  restraint. 

This  constraint  wore  off  by  and  by,  Bream 
noting  the  change  with  pleasure  and  attributing 
it  in  great  measure  to  his  powers  as  a  conversa 
tionalist.  Gilbert  Bream  thought  well  of  him- 

8  113 


Barbara 

self,  and  certainly  he  had  tried  hard  to  drive 
the  shadows  from  Barbara's  face. 

"  I  have  been  wanting  to  say  something  to 
you,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice  one  evening. 
The  window  had  been  open  and  the  sea  air 
was  penetrating.  He  had  complained  of  chilli 
ness,  whereupon  she  had  closed  the  window 
and  was  now  placing  on  his  shoulders  a  light 
covering. 

"  Yes  ?  "  she  answered. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  guessed  it ;  that  will 
save  explanations/' 

His  manner  and  look  puzzled  her  and  made 
her  uneasy. 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand  you,"  she  said, 
drawing  back  slightly. 

"Don't  go  away,"  he  urged.  "Fix  this 
other  corner  of  the  wrap." 

To  do  so  she  was  compelled  to  come  closer 
to  him. 

"  Ah,  that 's  better  ! "  he  said,  with  a  catch 
of  the  breath.  "  And  you  have  n't  guessed  ? 
I  'm  afraid  you  are  n't  as  quick  as  I  thought 
you  !  " 

She  was  bending  over  the  chair,  and  as  she 
thus  stooped  he  put  up  his  arm  quickly,  caught 
her  tightly  about  the  waist  and  drew  her  still 
closer.  The  words  and  the  act  bewildered  and 

114 


The  Fall  of  Castle  Content 

startled  her.  She  struggled,  and  sought  to 
draw  away.  This  failing,  she  wrenched  her 
self  violently  from  his  grasp. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded,  her 
face  aflame. 

The  hue  of  her  face  and  the  energy  of  her 
exclamation  did  not  disconcert  him. 

"  Mean  ?  "  he  answered.  "  Have  n't  you 
seen  that  because  I  'm  so  fond  of  you  is  why 
I  Ve  played  the  invalid  so  long  ?  You  cer 
tainly  have  seen  that,  Mrs.  Timberly ;  if  not, 
you  must  be  blind  !  " 

He  put  his  coddled  foot  to  the  floor,  rose 
from  the  chair,  and  stretching  out  his  hands 
moved  toward  her  with  scarcely  the  suggestion 
of  a  limp.  She  gave  him  a  quick,  startled 
glance,  and  what  she  saw  in  his  eyes  frightened 
her.  Until  that  moment  she  had  not  dreamed 
that  he  had  been  playing  the  hypocrite,  and 
making  his  lameness  an  excuse  for  enjoying 
her  company  and  obtaining  a  mastery  over  her. 
She  recoiled  under  the  shock  of  this  discovery, 
and  with  a  stifled  cry  fled  from  the  room. 

She  heard  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Lake  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  long  corridor,  but  her  humili 
ation  and  anger  were  so  great  that  she  avoided 
a  meeting  with  her  and  hurried  on  to  her  own 
apartment. 


Barbara 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  she  asked  herself. 
"  To  be  basely  insulted  in  that  way  !  I  can't 
stay  in  this  house  another  minute.  I  can't 
meet  Mrs.  Lake.  I  —  I  —  " 

She  stopped,  overwhelmed  by  the  conviction 
that  she  had  herself  played  a  part.  Even  if 
his  intentions  were  of  the  best,  which  she  could 
hardly  believe,  never  a  hint  had  she  given  him 
that  she  was  a  married  woman,  that  she  was 
not  a  widow,  or  at  least  did  not  so  consider 
herself.  She  was  still  clinging  to  the  belief 
and  the  hope  that  somewhere  in  the  wide 
world  Roger  Timberly  was  living  and  would 
one  day  be  restored  to  her,  yet  she  had  never 
acquainted  Gilbert  Bream  with  that  fact.  It 
seemed  to  her  now  that  by  her  silence  she  had 
wronged  Roger,  this  man,  and  herself. 

"  It  is  my  fault,"  she  admitted.  "  I  have 
dealt  unfairly  by  him." 

She  stood  in  hesitation  for  a  time,  then 
came  to  the  firm  determination  to  leave  the 
house  at  once  without  again  seeing  either 
Bream  or  Mrs.  Lake.  Such  explanations  as 
were  due  to  Mrs.  Lake,  if  it  were  possible  to 
make  any  that  would  be  satisfactory,  could  be 
better  made  by  pen  than  by  tongue. 

Putting  together  some  articles  she  rolled 
them  into  a  bundle,  then  descended  softly  to 
116 


The  Fall  of  Castle  Content 

the  first  floor  and  succeeded  in  gaining  the 
street  without  attracting  attention.  Night  was 
about  her,  and  the  lines  of  lighted  street  lamps 
seemed  to  beckon  her  toward  the  heart  of  the 
little  city. 

She  needed  first  of  all  shelter,  and  a  place 
where  she  could  hide  herself  from  the  eyes  of 
men  and  think,  think,  think  over  the  occur 
rence  of  the  evening  and  what  had  led  up  to  it, 
and  of  the  problem  of  the  future. 

She  found  a  quiet  lodging-house  on  a  side 
street  finally.  It  was  bright  and  clean,  if 
humble,  and  she  entered  gratefully  into  the 
room  to  which  she  was  shown.  Having  put 
down  her  bundle  and  her  little  travelling-bag 
and  locked  the  door,  she  drew  a  chair  to  the 
window  and  sat  staring  out  into  the  street  as 
if  in  a  trance.  Cabs  and  carriages  rolled  by, 
and  men  and  women  passed  laughing  and  talk 
ing,  but  she  was  conscious  of  none  of  these 
things.  She  was  looking  into  the  past  and 
into  her  own  heart  and  conduct,  searching  for 
some  scrap  of  evidence  which  would  convict 
her  of  wrongdoing  or  encouragement  in  her 
attitude  toward  Gilbert  Bream.  She  found 
nothing,  except  some  motes  of  kindness  which 
she  magnified  into  mountains  of  indiscretion, 
and  added  to  her  misery  by  their  contemplation. 
117 


Barbara 

She  became  conscious  at  last  that  the  street 
had  grown  quiet,  and  awoke  to  a  realization 
that  the  hour  was  very  late. 

"  He  intended  it  as  an  insult,"  she  said  to 
herself,  at  last.  cc  He  thinks  I  am  a  base 
woman." 

The  touch  of  the  pillow  did  not  bring  drow 
siness,  and  for  long  hours  she  lay  awake,  count 
ing  out  the  time  by  the  strokes  of  the  clock  in 
the  lodging-house  office,  while  the  events  of 
her  recent  past  came  before  her  in  review  and 
the  future  stretched  out  into  a  troubled  un 
certainty.  She  slept  at  last  in  an  uneasy  way, 
tossing  and  moaning  and  muttering  broken 
sentences  containing  the  names  of  Roger  and 
Gilbert  Bream. 


118 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE   DOVE   IN   THE   HAWK'S   NEST 

WHEN  Barbara  arose  in  the  morning  she 
tried  to  think  seriously  of  the  situation 
in  which  she  was  now  placed.  She  had  only 
enough  money  to  pay  for  board  and  lodging 
for  a  few  days.  Mrs.  Lake,  kind-hearted  as 
she  was,  was  haphazard  in  matters  of  money. 
Barbara  had  shrunk  from  asking  for  her  salary 
except  when  she  absolutely  required  it.  As  a 
result  her  pay  was  far  in  arrears,  and  having 
left  the  house  without  seeing  Mrs.  Lake  she 
had  only  the  small  sum  that  was  at  the  time  in 
her  purse. 

"  I  cannot  go  back  there,"  she  decided,  as 
she  thought  over  the  matter.  "  I  simply 
cannot.  And  I  cannot  write  to  her  yet,  for  I 
don't  know  what  to  say,  and  if  I  write  Mr. 
Bream  may  try  to  seek  me  out.  I  shall  have 
to  get  along  as  well  as  I  can  without  the 
money.  And  I  must  look  for  a  place  where  I 
can  earn  a  little  something." 

As  the  morning  advanced  she  began  a  cau- 
119 


Barbara 

tious  search  for  such  a  place,  at  every  turn 
rilled  with  the  dread  of  meeting  Gilbert  Bream, 
for  San  Diego  is  but  a  small  city.  She  did  not 
see  him,  and  she  found  no  employment. 

Seeking  the  post  office,  she  there  wrote  a 
letter  to  Mr.  Tilford,  instructing  him  to  sell 
her  ponies  and  buggy,  and  to  see  if  it  would 
be  possible  for  her  to  dispose  of  Roger's  land 
claim.  Tilford  had  himself  purchased  the 
cow  and  the  poultry.  If  he  could  sell  the 
ponies  and  buggy,  which  she  knew  he  did  not 
want  to  buy,  that  would  supply  her  with  the 
money  she  so  much  needed  now ;  but  she  was 
well  aware  that  he  would  probably  experience 
difficulty  in  finding  a  purchaser,  and  in  any 
event  she  could  anticipate  no  immediate  assist 
ance  from  that  source. 

As  night  came  on,  and  she  was  still  unsuc 
cessful  in  her  search  for  employment,  she 
turned  into  a  restaurant,  attracted  by  its  bright 
and  tidy  appearance. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  go  back  to 
Cripple  Creek/'  was  her  thought.  "  Mr. 
Matthews  would  send  me  money  for  my  fare, 
I  know,  if  I  should  write  or  telegraph  to  him 
for  it." 

But  she  did  not  wish  to  return  to  Cripple 
Creek,  which  she  had  exhausted  as  a  field  of 

I2O 


The  Dove  in  the  Hawk's  Nest 

search  for  Roger.  Her  desire  was  to  remain 
in  San  Diego,  in  the  hope  that  she  could  there 
find  another  clue,  and  she  now  accused  herself 
of  having  almost  forgotten  this  search  —  the 
one  object  of  her  life  —  while  she  dreamed 
away  the  precious  days  in  the  company  of  a 
man  who  had  proven  himself  perfidious. 

As  she  passed  from  the  dining-room  she  ob 
served  the  proprietor  chewing  at  a  pencil  and 
wrinkling  his  brows  over  some  troublesome 
figures  in  an  account  book.  The  suggestion 
came  that  here  was  something  she  might  do, — 
assist  this  man  and  perhaps  receive  in  return 
her  meals  until  she  could  find  a  position.  She 
approached  the  high  desk  behind  which  he 
stood  and  spoke  to  him. 

"  Eh  !  what  is  it  ?  "  he  demanded,  in  a  sharp, 
high  voice. 

Barbara  shrank  a  little  before  this  outburst, 
but  began  to  put  her  thought  into  words. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  some  work  that  I  could 
do  ?  I  need  employment  to  pay  for  my  board 
for  a  few  days,  and  it  has  occurred  to  me  that 
I  might  be  able  to  help  you  with  your  book 
keeping." 

"  Do  my  own  bookkeeping,"  said  the  man, 
whose  name  was  Nugent.  "  Ain't  much  to  do 
here.  Cash  house,  ye  see  !  " 

121 


Barbara 

He  stared  at  her. 

"  Come  round  in  the  mornin',''  he  invited. 
"Feller  over  there  —  lawyer  and  real  estate/' 
he  jerked  his  head  toward  a  door  behind  him, 
"  needs  a  likely  young  female  to  help  in  his 
biz ;  he  told  me  so  only  to-day.  You  might 
git  the  job;  I  dunno.  Worth  trying  I  reckon. 
Good-day." 

He  took  the  pencil  from  behind  his  ear, 
dropped  his  eyes  to  the  account  book,  and  be 
came  again  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  figures. 
He  had  meant  to  be  kind,  she  thought,  yet  his 
ferrety  red  eyes,  his  piercing  glances,  his  high 
voice  and  coarse  manner  were  decidedly  un 
pleasant. 

Nevertheless,  so  urgent  was  her  need  that 
she  returned  to  the  place  the  next  morning,  re- 
introduced  herself  to  Nugent,  and  was  by  him 
piloted  into  a  little  office  behind  the  restaurant. 

"  Girl  fer  ye,"  said  Nugent ;  and  ducked 
back  into  the  restaurant,  leaving  Barbara  star 
ing  at  a  young  man  whose  feet  were  elevated 
on  a  roll-top  desk  and  who  was  smoking  a 
cigar.  A  map  of  San  Diego  ornamented  the 
wall  at  his  back.  Near  it  was  a  big  calendar. 
The  table  itself  was  piled  high  with  vegetables, 
in  whose  shadows  inkstands,  pens,  and  writing 
materials  were  lost.  Other  vegetables  were  in 

122 


The  Dove  in  the  Hawk's  Nest 

the  corners  of  the  room.  One  of  the  chairs 
was  filled  with  very  red  beets,  another  with 
white  California  grapes ;  in  the  office  windows 
were  pumpkins,  gigantic  squashes,  and  strings 
of  half-husked  Indian  corn.  It  was  like  enter 
ing  a  stall  in  a  vegetable  market.  Above  the 
outer  door  and  extending  out  over  the  side 
walk  was  a  big  gilt  sign,  announcing  that  this 
was  the  law  and  real  estate  office  of  Selby 
Spencer,  and  that  persons  looking  for  bargains 
in  California  bonanza  real  estate  would  make 
the  mistake  of  their  lives  if  they  did  not  call 
on  him  at  once. 

Mr.  Selby  Spencer  pulled  down  his  feet  and 
removed  his  cigar  when  he  saw  Barbara  stand 
ing  before  him.  She  did  not  like  his  appear 
ance.  For  one  thing,  his  whitish  eyes  were 
watery  and  his  cheeks  had  the  puffy  look  given 
by  indulgence  in  intoxicants.  But  she  stated 
the  nature  of  her  errand,  while  the  young  man, 
placing  a  chair  for  her,  from  which  he  had  to 
remove  the  bunches  of  grapes  before  she  could 
occupy  it,  looked  at  her  with  marked  interest. 

"  Glad  Nugent  showed  you  in,"  he  said. 
"  I  do  need  some  help  in  my  efforts  to  let 
people  understand  what  they  're  missing  by 
not  investing  in  California  real  estate  at  this 
time,  when  the  boom  has  passed  and  everything 
123 


Barbara 

is  so  low  in  price.  I  'm  pushing  my  advertising 
as  much  as  I  can ;  just  now  I  've  got  some  let 
ters  over  there  to  be  manifolded.  You  might 
go  to  work  on  them  if  you  like,  Miss  —  " 

"  Mrs.  Timberly,"  she  corrected. 

He  looked  disappointed. 

"  Husband  living  here  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  living  here." 

"  No  ?  Well,  you  can  begin  work  on  those 
letters,  and  I  '11  give  you  the  addresses  to  which 
they  're  to  be  sent." 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her  attentively. 

"  I  can't  pay  you  much ;  I  told  Nugent  I 
couldn't  —  six  dollars  a  week  is  my  limit. 
Perhaps  I  can  do  better  a  little  later ;  I  know  I 
can,  if  business  picks  up  as  it  ought  to.  The 
collapse  of  the  boom  rather  flattened  me,  as 
it  did  a  good  many  others ;  but  it  can't  last. 
The  thing's  impossible.  We've  got  the  land 
here  "  —  he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  vege 
tables  and  fruit  as  proof — "and  we've  got 
the  climate ;  people  have  got  to  come  to  us. 
There  can't  be  any  mistake  about  it ;  they  Ve 
got  to  come." 

"  Six  dollars  will  do  very  well,"  she  said, "  for 
awhile.     It  will  pay  my  board  and  lodging;  but 
of  course  I  must  have  the  privilege  of  looking 
for  another  place  while  I  remain  here." 
124 


The  Dove  in  the  Hawk's  Nest 

"  Oh,  you  '11  want  to  remain,"  he  said. 
"  And  I  '11  do  better  by  you.  Business  is 
bound  to  pick  up ;  it  can't  help  it." 

He  got  out  some  addresses  and  paper,  showed 
her  the  letters  of  which  he  had  spoken,  and  the 
manifolder.  Then  he  stared  at  the  back  of 
her  head  for  a  long  while  as  she  proceeded  with 
the  work.  Barbara  was  not  pleased  with  the 
place  ;  but  she  had  little  liberty  of  choice  now, 
and  she  hoped  for  something  better.  It  was 
near  the  lodging-house,  which  she  had  found 
comfortable,  and  near  the  restaurant.  She 
would  not  need  to  be  on  the  street  a  great 
deal,  and  this  lessened  the  chances  of  seeing 
Gilbert  Bream.  She  would  have  time  to  think, 
too,  of  what  she  ought  to  do  and  where  she 
ought  to  go. 

She  did  not  find  much  work  to  do  in  the 
office  that  day  and  went  to  her  lodging-house 
early. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  go  to  Mrs.  Kinnison 
or  Mrs.  Longley,"  was  her  thought,  as  she 
turned  the  matter  over  and  over  in  her  mind 
that  night,  referring  to  San  Diego  friends  of 
Mrs.  Lake,  with  whom,  as  governess,  she  had 
become  acquainted.  "  But  what  could  I  say 
to  them?  As  friends  of  Mrs.  Lake  and  her 
brother,  could  I  tell  them  how  he  insulted  me ; 

I25 


Barbara 

and  would  they  believe  me  if  I  did  ?  And  how 
long  can  I  keep  this  up? — I'm  in  danger  of 
meeting  him  every  time  I  go  out  on  the  street ! 
I  'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  leave  San  Diego,  even 
if  I  don't  want  to." 

She  did  not  see  her  way  clear  to  leave  the 
city,  and  this,  combined  with  her  great  desire 
to  remain,  held  her  and  sent  her  back  to 
Selby  Spencer's  office.  As  she  entered  it 
on  the  morning  of  the  third  day  she  found 
herself  face  to  face  with  Gilbert  Bream,  who 
had  stepped  in  to  talk  to  Spencer,  a  man 
he  did  not  like,  about  some  matters  of 
business  connected  with  certain  San  Diego 
real  estate. 

Bream  had  been  searching  quietly  for  Bar 
bara,  and  had  denounced  himself  furiously  and 
without  relenting  since  the  moment  of  her  dis 
appearance.  More  than  that,  he  had  confessed 
to  Mrs.  Lake  that  it  was  his  words  and  actions 
which  had  driven  her  from  the  house.  This 
had  not  been  a  willing  confession.  When  it 
was  found  that  Barbara  was  gone  and  it  seemed 
that  she  did  not  mean  to  return,  some  explana 
tion  was  sought  for.  A  word  or  two  that  he 
let  fall  caused  Mrs.  Lake  to  ask  questions ;  he 
flushed,  and  she  questioned  with  such  persist 
ence  that  a  portion  of  the  truth  was  wrung 

126 


The  Dove  in  the  Hawk's  Nest 

from  him.  Mrs.  Lake's  eyes  showed  her 
anger  and  contempt. 

"  Gilbert,  I  did  n't  think  it  of  you  !  And 
she  is  a  married  woman  ! " 

"You  are  jumping  to  unpleasant  conclu 
sions,"  he  urged,  while  his  face  reddened. 

"The  children's  governess!  "  she  exclaimed, 
and  left  the  room. 

The  recollection  of  this  interview  with  his 
sister  was  painfully  clear  in  the  mind  of  Gil 
bert  Bream  as  he  again  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  Barbara.  She,  looking  at  him  in  a 
startled  way,  thought  he  intended  to  speak  to 
her  ;  but  he  turned  with  attempted  carelessness 
to  Spencer,  and  during  the  talk  that  followed 
Barbara  escaped  into  Nugent's  restaurant. 

Spencer,  whose  evil  mind  was  a  sink  of  im 
purity,  had  observed  Barbara's  sudden  confu 
sion,  and  put  his  own  construction  on  the 
matter  when  he  saw  her  leave  the  office.  He 
looked  at  Bream  offensively.  The  talk  went 
on,  and  taking  up  his  cigar  he  touched  a 
lighted  match  to  it,  all  the  time  eyeing  Bream 
covertly. 

"  Deuced  pretty  woman  !  "  he  interjected, 
throwing  the  match  through  the  open  window 
into  the  street.  <c  Where  'd  you  know  her  ?  " 

Bream  lost  his  temper.  He  had  been  thun- 
127 


Barbara 

derstruck  on  finding  Barbara  at  work  in  Spen 
cer's  office,  for,  unknown  to  Barbara,  the  man 
had  a  most  unsavory  reputation  ;  now  his  anger 
rose  at  the  question  and  its  covert  meaning. 

"  I  don't  know  that  it 's  any  of  your  busi 
ness,''  was  his  curt  reply.  "It's  like  you  to 
need  to  be  told  that  she  's  a  lady  !  " 

"  You  seem  to  know  her  all  right,"  Spencer 
drawled,  pulling  at  his  cigar  and  giving  Bream 
a  comprehensive  glance  through  the  smoke. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? "  Bream 
asked  testily.  He  was  angry  with  himself  and 
this  man  and  in  no  mood  for  trifling.  "  I  know 
that  she  is  a  lady  ;  and  knowing  that,  I  know 
also  that  she  ought  not  to  be  in  your  office," 
was  his  blunt  and  offensive  declaration. 

Spencer's  whiskey-red  face  became  redder, 
but  he  laughed  and  sauntered  toward  the 
door. 

"  See  here,"  said  Bream,  rising  and  follow 
ing  him.  "  You  can't  joke  with  me  about  this 
thing,  and  you  may  as  well  know  it !  " 

Spencer  turned  toward  him  in  sudden  anger. 

"  The  hell  I  can't  ?  "  he  said.  "  When  did 
you  put  on  your  coat  of  virtuous  whitewash  ? 
I  saw  that  you  and  she  understood  each  other 
as  soon  as  she  entered  the  office.  You  're  a 
nice  sort  of  saint  to  —  " 
128 


The  Dove  in  the  Hawk's  Nest 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  seeing  the 
look  that  came  into  Bream's  face. 

"What 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Just  this,"  said  Bream,  his  voice  trembling. 
"That  woman  is  too  good  and  pure  to  be  near 
you ;  and  if  you  open  your  face  again  in  that 
way  I  '11  smash  it." 

Spencer  turned  pale  under  the  whiskey  red. 
In  his  hesitation  he  laughed  and  flicked  at  the 
ashes  of  his  cigar,  while  his  whitish  eyes  burned 
with  an  angry  light. 

"You're  a  — "  he  began,  thinking  to  offer 
some  sort  of  apology.  Bream  misunderstood 
him,  and  struck  him  sharply  in  the  face. 

Spencer  staggered  against  the  door,  and 
drawing  out  a  handkerchief  applied  it  to  his 
bruised  lip.  He  had  not  expected  a  blow, 
for  he  had  never  heard  of  Bream  striking  any 
one,  no  matter  how  great  the  provocation. 
There  was  a  stain  of  blood  on  the  handker 
chief  as  he  drew  it  away.  The  sight  of  that 
stain  cooled  Bream's  lava-like  temper.  He 
realized  suddenly  what  a  fool  he  had  been. 

Spencer  gave  him  a  look  of  pretended  con 
tempt.  For  a  moment  Bream  stood  in  hesita 
tion,  then  passed  into  the  restaurant. 

Barbara  was  gone. 


129 


CHAPTER  X 

AN   ARMED   TRUCE 

AS  Bream  walked  up  the  street  after  leav 
ing  the  restaurant  he  pulled  his  soft 
hat  over  his  eyes  to  conceal  the  flush  in  his 
face,  and  took  out  a  cigar  and  began  to  smoke 
to  hide  his  nervousness. 

"It's  a  queer  world,"  was  his  thought, 
"  that  allows  me  to  go  into  Spencer's  office, 
and  even  to  consort  with  him  if  I  wish  to, 
without  comment,  yet  would  brand  a  woman 
for  merely  being  seen  with  him.  The  whole 
thing  is  my  fault,  though ;  I  forced  her  out 
of  the  house  and  she  had  to  go  somewhere. 
Of  course  she  does  n't  know  anything  about 
the  scoundrel's  reputation  ;  she  'd  starve  in  the 
streets  before  going  near  him  if  she  did." 

His  face  grew  thoughtful. 

"  But  I  'm  no  better  than  Spencer  —  not  so 
good.  I  make  a  pretence  of  respectability,  and 
he  doesn't.  I  claim  to  be  a  gentleman!  Hell 
is  full  of  just  such  gentlemen  as  I  am  ! 

"  I  will  keep  away  from  her,"  he  promised 
130 


An  Armed  Truce 

himself  as  he  walked  on.  "  If  I  should  try  to 
see  her  it  would  only  make  matters  worse,  and 
I  have  compromised  her  enough  already. 
God !  why  is  it  that  the  things  a  man  wants 
to  do  are  usually  the  things  he  can't  do,  and  the 
things  he  should  n't  do  are  the  things  he  does 
readily  enough  ?  How  am  I  to  let  her  know 
what  sort  of  man  Spencer  is  ?  She  ought  to 
know.  But  I  was  a  fool  for  losing  my  temper 
and  striking  him." 

Then  he  began  to  see  that  it  was  his  own  con 
duct  toward  Barbara  more  than  anything  else 
which  had  so  stirred  him  against  Selby  Spencer. 

On  his  arrival  at  the  house  he  was  met  by 
Mrs.  Lake,  who  held  a  telegram  in  her  hands 
and  looked  much  disturbed  as  she  came  to  the 
door.  Apparently  she  had  been  watching  for 
his  approach. 

cc  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  Gilbert,"  she 
said.  "  Mr.  Lake  is  down  with  pneumonia 
and  I  must  go  to  him  on  the  first  train.  But 
what  am  I  to  do  with  the  children  ?  I  can't 
trust  them  with  the  servants  we  have,  and  I 
can't  take  them  to  Denver  at  this  season.  The 
change  of  climate  might  kill  them." 

Bream  thought  of  Barbara.  He  guessed, 
too,  that  his  sister's  thoughts  were  turned  in 
the  same  direction. 


Barbara 

"  If  Mrs.  Timberly  were  only  here  now," 
she  said,  "  the  matter  could  be  arranged  easily 
enough.  The  children  would  do  as  well  in 
her  charge  as  in  my  own.  But  I  don't  know 
where  she  is,  and  if  we  could  find  her  she  prob 
ably  would  refuse  to  return  to  the  house. 
There  is  n't  a  reliable  woman  to  be  had  any 
where." 

There  was  a  certain  eagerness  in  Bream's 
face,  and  he  thrust  his  hands  uneasily  into  his 
pockets. 

"  I  can  tell  you  where  Mrs.  Timberly  is," 
he  ventured. 

Mrs.  Lake  looked  at  him  quickly. 

"  She  is  writing  letters  or  something  of  the 
kind  in  Selby  Spencer's  office ;  I  discovered 
her  there  by  chance  this  morning." 

Mrs.  Lake's  glance  became  accusing. 

"  I  suppose  you  're  pleased  with  your 
work  ? "  she  said  bitingly. 

"No;  I'm  ashamed  of  it." 

"  I  must  go  to  her  at  once,"  was  her 
declaration. 

"  Do!  "  said  Bream,  with  hearty  enthusiasm. 

She  looked  at  him  again,  this  time  with 
much  earnestness. 

"  And,  Gilbert,  if  I  can  induce  her  to  come 
here?" 

'3* 


An  Armed  Truce 

"  I  will  promise  to  remain  away  from  the 
house,"  he  said,  his  face  lighting  up.  "  I  will 
not  come  near  her  or  near  the  place.  So  far 
as  she  can  know  personally  I  will  have  no 
existence." 

The  anxious  lines  in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Lake 
softened. 

"  That  makes  the  matter  easy,  then.  I  don't 
see  how  she  can  refuse,  under  those  circum 
stances,  for  she  loves  the  children." 

Bream  tried  to  laugh. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  the  Jonah,"  he  admitted. 
"  Throw  me  over  to  the  fishes  ;  that  will  calm 
the  troubled  waters.  Anything  —  fix  it  any 
way  you  please." 

Mrs.  Lake  went  at  once  to  Spencer's  office 
for  the  purpose  of  reasoning  Barbara  into  the 
belief  that  it  was  quite  as  necessary  for  her  to 
take  charge  of  the  children  as  it  was  for  Mrs. 
Lake  to  return  to  Denver.  But  Barbara  was 
not  there,  and  it  was  with  much  difficulty  that 
Mrs.  Lake  traced  her  to  her  lodging-house. 

"You  poor  child!"  she  said,  when  she  at 
last  found  Barbara,  who  was  in  her  room  pre 
paring  to  leave  town.  "  Gilbert  told  me  where 
you  were.  He  has  acted  in  a  beastly  way 
toward  you,  I  am  sure ;  but  he  is  as  sorry  for 
it  now  as  I  am." 

'33 


Barbara 

She  showed  Barbara  the  telegram. 

"  We  just  can't  get  along  without  you,"  she 
insisted.  "  The  children  would  n't  be  con 
tented  to  stay  with  any  one  else,  even  if  any 
one  else  could  be  procured,  which  is  quite  im 
possible  ;  but  they  would  be  delighted  to  stay 
with  you.  They  have  been  asking  for  you 
constantly,  dear,  and  you  really  must  come.  I 
refuse  to  take  c  no '  for  an  answer." 

In  spite  of  this  outburst  Barbara  stood  in 
hesitation.  Mrs.  Lake  understood  the  nature 
of  the  thought  that  troubled  her. 

"  You  will  be  in  supreme  command  of  the 
servants,"  she  said  tactfully.  "  Gilbert  will 
have  rooms  at  the  Pacific  Hotel,  and  will 
be  within  easy  reach  should  you  at  any  time 
need  advice  or  help." 

"  I  do  love  the  children,"  Barbara  admitted. 

"  I  knew  you  would  n't  refuse  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Lake  persuasively  ;  then  began  to  argue 
the  matter  again,  telling  Barbara  of  the  sayings 
of  the  children  and  of  their  comments  on  her 
inexplicable  absence,  using  all  the  adroitness  at 
her  command.  Mrs.  Lake  was  very  much  in 
earnest  and  felt  her  need  to  be  great,  and  so 
piled  up  argument  and  entreaty  that  Barbara 
could  at  last  do  nothing  but  capitulate.  It  is 
doubtful  if  she  would  have  surrendered,  how- 


An  Armed  Truce 

ever,  but  for  the  fact  that  she  really  loved  the 
Lake  children  quite  as  much  as  they  loved 
her. 

Having  installed  Barbara  as  temporary  mis 
tress  of  her  San  Diego  residence,  Mrs.  Lake 
took  the  first  train  for  Denver.  Barbara's 
tasks  were  light,  and  for  several  days  matters 
ran  along  smoothly  enough.  A  telegram  came 
from  Mrs.  Lake  announcing  her  arrival  in 
Denver,  and  this  was  followed  by  a  letter 
telling  of  the  serious  condition  of  Mr.  Lake 
and  filled  with  endearing  terms  for  Barbara 
and  the  children. 

One  evening  Alice  came  to  Barbara  com 
plaining  of  chilliness. 

"  I  feel  so  funny,17  she  said,  "  and  my 
throat's  just  awfully  sore.  I  wonder  what 
makes  it  P  " 

"  Have  you  been  anywhere —  on  the  street, 

1%  91 
mean  r 

"  Gordon  and  I  went  down  to  Mr.  Emer 
son's  candy  store,  and  I  bought  some  gum 
drops  and  an  orange  with  the  money  mamma 
gave  me ;  but  that  could  n't  'a'  made  my  throat 
sore,  could  it  ?  " 

She  was  feverish,  her  pulse  was  quick,  and 
she  had  a  wheezing  cough.  As  cases  of  diph 
theria  had  been  reported,  Barbara  put  her  to 


Barbara 

bed  and  telephoned  for  the  family  physician, 
He  came,  pronounced  the  case  diphtheria,  and 
ordered  the  isolation  of  the  patient. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Bream  ?  "  he  asked  of  Bar 
bara  as  they  sat  together  by  the  sick-bed. 

"At  the  Pacific  Hotel,  I  believe,"  she  was 
forced  to  answer. 

"  He  ought  to  be  here,"  was  the  gruff  state 
ment,  and  stepping  to  the  telephone  in  an 
adjacent  room  he  called  up  the  Pacific. 

Barbara  heard  the  one-sided  conversation 
that  followed,  and  as  she  listened  she  looked 
into  Alice's  flushed  face  and  did  some  serious 
thinking.  Bream  answered  the  doctor's  sum 
mons  with  promptness. 

The  doctor  took  him  into  another  room 
and  Barbara  could  hear  them  discussing  the 
serious  aspect  of  the  case  and  the  unfortunate 
fact  of  Mrs.  Lake's  absence. 

"We  can  let  the  matter  rest  awhile,"  she 
heard  the  doctor  say.  "  It  is  impossible  to 
tell  yet  how  this  case  will  turn.  It  seems  to 
be  well  in  hand  just  at  present." 

Then  he  called  to  her  and  she  went  out  to 
join  in  the  talk.  She  produced  the  letter  from 
Mrs.  Lake  giving  details  of  the  condition  of 
the  patient  in  Denver,  which  the  doctor  read 
with  grave  demeanor. 

136 


An  Armed  Truce 

"  Too  bad,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  it  back. 
"It's  the  best  we  can  do,  I  suppose.  I'm 
hoping  we  won't  need  her.  But  in  these  cases 
changes  sometimes  come  very  quickly.  I  will 
send  up  a  good  nurse  and  will  call  again  in  the 
morning.  If  there  is  any  marked  change  let 
me  know." 

Bream  followed  the  doctor  into  the  street. 
Since  his  meeting  with  Barbara  in  Spencer's 
office  he  had  recovered  his  mental  equilibrium, 
and  the  sense  of  exasperation  which  had  that 
day  possessed  him  had  vanished.  He  knew 
that  his  recall  to  the  house  had  been  forced 
by  circumstances  not  of  Barbara's  choosing, 
and  he  resolved  to  conduct  himself  with  tact 
and  consideration.  He  remained  out  on  the 
piazza  a  long  time,  and  when  no  word  of  ill 
came  from  the  sick-room  returned  to  his 
hotel. 

When  he  met  Barbara  the  next  day,  remain 
ing  after  the  physician's  departure,  there  was 
no  allusion  to  the  dramatic  breaking  off  of  their 
friendship  nor  to  the  incidents  which  had  suc 
ceeded  it.  But  in  his  eyes  Barbara  had  never 
seemed  so  beautiful.  Her  womanly  tenderness 
with  the  sick  child  and  her  utter  thoughtless 
ness  of  herself  set  her  in  a  new  light.  Every 
hour  brought  home  to  him  more  and  more 


Barbara 

how  little  he  had  really  known  her ;  how 
higher  than  an  angel  she  was  above  him  in 
all  her  thoughts  and  intuitions.  He  cursed 
himself  for  his  worse  than  stupidity;  and  the 
feeling  that  had  been  at  first  chiefly  admiration 
for  her  outward  physical  charms  took  now  a 
deeper  course,  and  bursting  all  bounds  flooded 
his  entire  being  with  its  rising  tide.  Not  at 
all  times  a  master  of  his  emotions,  he  found 
his  position  peculiarly  difficult.  The  soft  light 
in  Barbara's  gray  eyes,  the  burnished  shine  of 
her  brown  hair,  the  play  of  her  expressive  feat 
ures,  as  she  sat  at  the  bedside  watching  Alice, 
impressed  him  in  a  new  way,  and  the  occasional 
touch  of  her  hand  thrilled  him  like  wine. 

Shortly  after  midnight  on  one  of  Alice's 
worst  days  he  entered  the  sick-room  and  in 
sisted  unselfishly  on  relieving  the  tired  nurse 
until  morning.  When  she  had  gone  he  sought 
to  while  the  time  away  by  reading  and  by  walk 
ing  softly  about  the  room.  But  as  he  sat  by 
the  bed,  trying  to  read,  the  book  lay  open  on 
his  knee  more  than  half  the  time  without  pre 
senting  to  him  an  intelligible  thought,  and  in 
his  walking  he  often  stopped  abstractedly  and 
stood  staring  into  space.  When  morning 
dawned  a  great  resolve  filled  him.  It  was  this : 
In  spite  of  the  past  and  the  present,  in  spite 
138 


An  Armed  Truce 

of  everything,  he  would  one  day  win  Barbara 
Timberly  for  his  wife. 

Barbara  appeared  about  daybreak. 

cc  I  am  sure  Alice  is  very  much  improved," 
she  said  in  a  hopeful  tone,  and  rewarded  him 
with  a  smile  as  she  bent  over  the  sick  child. 

Not  until  after  Mrs.  Lake  had  returned 
from  Denver,  and  Barbara's  need  was  no  longer 
pressing,  did  Tilford  forward  the  money  he 
had  been  able  to  obtain  by  selling  the  ponies 
and  buggy. 


CHAPTER   XI 

IN   THE   HANDS   OF   FATE 

THE  strain  of  all  she  had  passed  through 
was  too  much  for  Barbara.  Scarcely 
was  Alice  recovered  and  Mrs.  Lake  back  from 
Denver  when  the  faithful  governess  fell  ill 
herself. 

As  she  began  to  mend,  Mr.  Lake  appeared 
on  the  scene,  a  small,  unobtrusive  man,  whose 
one  thought  was  business  and  the  getting  of 
gain.  It  was  Barbara's  intention  to  leave  the 
house  now,  but  Mrs.  Lake's  protest  delayed 
her  going.  Then  almost  insensibly  and  against 
her  judgment  Barbara  found  herself  in  charge 
of  the  children  ;  they  clamored  to  be  with  her, 
and  accompanied  her  when  she  ventured  out 
into  the  wholesomely  clean  streets  filled  with 
the  pleasant  winter  sunshine. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flowers. 
And  such  flowers !  Single  daisy  plants  yards 
in  circumference,  starred  with  hundreds  of  white 
blossoms ;  calla  lilies  like  small  trees,  holding 
white  goblets  up  for  a  drink  of  the  warm  winter 

140 


In  the  Hands  of  Fate 

rains ;  geraniums  such  as  she  had  seen  only  in 
hot-houses  at  that  season,  growing  sturdy  of 
trunk  as  young  saplings  and  a  third  as  tall  as 
ordinary  houses ;  roses  and  pinks,  poppies  and 
pansies,  all  a  very  riot  of  color,  and  all  bloom 
ing  in  outdoor  freedom  under  skies  so  won- 
drously  blue  and  soft  that  Barbara  could  find 
no  fit  words  of  comparison.  Though  the 
month  was  December,  there  was  no  shivering 
fear  of  cold  anywhere. 

It  was  inspiriting  to  breathe  such  air;  and 
as  Barbara  returned  from  her  daily  walks  with 
the  children  she  seemed  to  bring  with  her 
something  of  the  all-pervading  loveliness  of  the 
sky,  the  earth,  and  the  sea,  and  her  cheeks 
borrowed  a  touch  of  the  hue  of  the  winter- 
blooming  roses. 

Gilbert  Bream  was  not  seen  much  about  the 
house,  but  wandered  to  Los  Angeles  and  other 
places,  then  back  again,  in  restlessness  of  spirit. 
On  his  return  one  day  he  encountered  Barbara 
as  she  came  back  from  one  of  her  walks  — 
Ruth  swinging  a  broken  doll  by  one  torn  leg, 
Gordon  prancing  along  on  a  stick  horse,  Alice 
bearing  sedately  a  burden  of  blossoms,  and 
Barbara,  grave-eyed,  yet  smiling,  bringing  up 
the  rear  in  this  march  to  the  house. 

The  children  began  to  tell  him  clamorously 
141 


Barbara 

of  what  they  had  been  doing.  Barbara  smiled 
and  pushed  Ruth,  with  the  tattered  doll,  on 
before  her.  Bream  had  meant  to  try  to  enter 
into  conversation  with  her,  but  a  sense  of  un 
easy  condemnation  caused  him  to  shower  some 
small  pieces  of  money  on  the  children  and 
beat  a  hasty  retreat.  He  turned  when  he  had 
gone  some  distance  and  watched  Barbara  pass 
up  the  walk  beneath  the  gum  and  pepper  trees. 

Not  until  they  had  lost  it  did  the  inhabit 
ants  of  earth's  first  paradise  realize  how  goodly 
had  been  their  heritage,  and  not  until  he 
seemed  to  have  lost  forever  Barbara's  sym 
pathetic  friendship  did  Gilbert  Bream  know  the 
meaning  of  that  loss.  An  invisible  Angel  of 
the  Flaming  Sword  stood  in  front  of  the  gate 
way  of  his  Eden. 

Bream  now  began  to  plan  how  he  could  best 
reveal  to  Barbara  the  love  that  so  filled  him. 
It  was  a  difficult  thing  to  plan  —  this  matter 
of  approach  to  a  woman  he  had  offended,  whom 
he  had  learned  to  love,  and  whose  moods  ap 
peared  to  be  as  changeable  as  the  sunshine  and 
cloud  of  a  California  winter.  He  made  excuses 
to  visit  the  house  to  see  Mr.  Lake  about  busi 
ness  affairs.  A  dozen  times  on  meeting  Bar 
bara  he  was  on  the  point  of  calling  up  the 
subject  that  lay  so  near  to  his  heart,  but  always 

142 


In  the  Hands  of  Fate 

his  courage  failed  him.  This  may  seem  strange 
enough,  when  the  character  of  the  man  is 
taken  into  consideration;  but  true  love  ties  the 
tongue  of  the  orator  and  throws  a  mantle  of 
inelegance  across  the  shoulders  of  Apollo. 

Bream  gave  it  up  at  last ;  then  chance 
brought  him  his  opportunity  and  strengthened 
him  to  speak  his  mind.  He  had  come  to  the 
house  intending  to  sound  his  sister  on  the  sub 
ject  of  Barbara's  present  disposition  toward 
him.  He  knew  he  had  offended  Mrs.  Lake 
when  he  offended  Barbara.  Her  gentle  tones 
had  been  a  scorpion  lash  of  reproof.  She  had 
said  at  the  time  that  Barbara  was  a  married 
woman.  Bream  interpreted  this  to  mean  that 
she  was  undivorced.  He  wanted  to  bring  this 
up  again  and  by  questioning  learn  something 
more  definite. 

Mrs.  Lake  was  out,  and  he  stepped  into  the 
library.  While  sitting  in  a  quiet  corner,  listen 
ing  to  the  breeze  in  the  trees  and  the  grind  of 
wheels  on  the  gravelled  street,  he  heard  the 
library  door  open  and  a  woman's  soft  tread. 
Quietly  drawing  aside  the  portiere  that  screened 
him  he  saw  Barbara,  her  slim  figure  drawn 
erect  as  she  reached  to  an  upper  shelf  for 
a  book.  She  turned  hastily  on  hearing  his 
movement. 


Barbara 

"  Mrs.  Timberly  —  Barbara  —  "  Bream  be 
gan,  rising  to  step  toward  her,  his  tones  im 
pulsive  and  entreating,  "  I  must  speak  to  you. 
You  misunderstand  me  wholly ;  and  I  beg  of 
you,  who  are  usually  so  just,  to  listen  to  me. 
I  shall  detain  you  but  a  moment/'  he  promised, 
"  but  speak  to  you  I  must  and  will." 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  reproach.  He  re 
fused  to  heed  it. 

"  I  love  you,  Barbara,"  he  declared  passion 
ately.  "  Can  you  not  see  it  ?  Have  you  not 
seen  it?  How  could  I  be  near  you  and  see 
you  and  not  love  you  !  " 

Barbara's  look  changed  to  one  of  pain  and 
entreaty. 

"Oh,  don't!  don't!"  she  gasped,  putting 
up  her  hand  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow. 

Bream  was  touched  and  mystified. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  begged.  "  Why  may  I 
not  speak  to  you  ?  " 

She  looked  into  his  face  with  a  wan  smile, 
like  a  child  who  wants  pity  for  its  hurt,  while 
acknowledging  the  justice  of  it. 

"  I  am  rightly  punished,"  she  stammered ; 
"  but  I  never  thought  of —  of  this  !  I  ought 
to  have  informed  you  from  the  first  that  I  was 
—  that  I  am  —  that  —  " 

She  did  not  know  how  to  tell  him  that  she 
144 


In  the  Hands  of  Fate 

was  in  doubt  whether  she  were  a  wife  or  a 
widow,  but  faltered  finally  : 

"  I  am  not  a  widow,  as  you  think.  That  is, 
I  don't  know  whether  my  husband  is  living  or 
dead." 

She  could  not  fail  to  note  the  change  that 
swept  over  the  face  of  Gilbert  Bream.  To  her 
excited  imagination  it  seemed  to  accuse  her  of 
perfidy. 

"  He  left  me  in  Kansas/'  she  explained  ;  "he 
did  not  desert  me,  but  went  away,  expecting  to 
return  in  a  few  days.  I  have  searched  for  him 
—  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  have  searched  for  him, 
everywhere  ;  in  Cripple  Creek,  for  that  was  his 
destination  when  he  went  away,  and  here  in 
San  Diego ;  but  I  have  never  heard  a  word, 
and  I  have  never  been  able  to  find  a  trace  of 
him,  nor  met  a  man  who  could  remember  that 
he  had  ever  seen  him,  but  once.  It  is  impos 
sible  for  you  to  understand  how  it  broke  my 
heart,  and  how — " 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  he  said  softly  and  with  im 
measurable  pity  in  his  voice.  "  I  presumed  that 
your  husband  was  dead,  Mrs.  Timberly,  or  that 
you  had  separated  from  him  ;  I  did  not  know." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  he  must  be  dead," 
she  admitted,  her  lips  trembling,  "  but  I  have 

refused   to   yield    to    that  conviction.     There 
10  i45 


Barbara 

are  many  things  to  make  me  feel  that  he  must 
be  dead,  besides  the  fact  that  his  letters  stopped 
suddenly  and  mysteriously  after  his  arrival  in 
Cripple  Creek ;  but  other  evidence  seems  to 
indicate  that  he  may  be  living.  I  have  sifted 
it  all,  all ;  and  I  have  never  been  able  to  accept 
as  a  positive  conviction  that  he  will  not  come 
back  to  me.  More  than  once  while  in  this 
house  my  heart  has  leaped  into  my  mouth  as 
I  saw  some  one  coming  up  the  street  who 
looked  like  him." 

Bream  was  silent;  then  he  began  to  ques 
tion  her.  And  with  a  growing  strength,  as 
she  perceived  his  sympathy,  Barbara  gave  him 
a  brief  account  of  Bexar's  visit  to  the  claim 
in  Kansas,  of  Roger's  departure  for  Cripple 
Creek,  and  of  her  vain  search.  He  listened 
calmly,  with  an  incisive  question  or  a  pertinent 
comment  now  and  then,  and  the  details  of  the 
pitiful  story  increased  his  love  rather  than 
diminished  it.  He  was  silent  again  when  she 
had  finished,  then  said : 

"  I  cannot  retract  the  declaration  I  made 
awhile  ago,  Mrs.  Timberly,  and  I  would  not 
if  I  could.  You  have  my  sympathy  ;  and  I 
must  ask  you  to  believe  me,  when  I  say  to 
you  that  if  I  can  help  you  in  any  way  I  shall 
be  only  too  glad  to  do  so.  Can  you  tell  me 

146 


In  the  Hands  of  Fate 

just  the  month  and  the  year  in  which  your 
husband  went  to  Cripple  Creek  ? " 

As  he  put  the  question  there  was  a  look  in 
Bream's  face  that  seemed  inexplicable.  Not 
until  long  afterward  did  Barbara  comprehend 
its  significance. 

"  Two  years  ago  last  May,"  she  answered, 
never  dreaming  that  he  had  a  well-grounded 
reason  for  making  the  inquiry. 

"And  you  say  it  was  this  mining  claim  which 
Joseph  Bexar  gave  you  that  drew  him  there  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  was  an  unfortunate  gift,  as  it 
turned  out,  and  brought  us  anything  but  the 
wealth  and  happiness  that  Bexar  hoped." 

Bream  asked  some  more  questions,  then 
drew  a  deep  sigh,  like  one  rousing  from  sleep. 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  have  hurt  you,  Mrs. 
Timberly,"  he  said,  with  a  tenderness  that  was 
almost  womanly.  "  We  do  not  always  know 
what  we  are  doing." 

She  thought  he  referred  to  the  words  which 
had  been  so  painful  to  her,  and  could  not 
know  that  he  was  thinking  of  something  else 
altogether.  She  was  glad  to  escape  from  the 
library,  and  when  he  ceased  his  questions  she 
took  the  book  she  had  come  to  get  and  retreated 
to  her  room  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  XII 

LOOKING    BACKWARD 

/GILBERT  BREAM  was  much  pained 
VJ  by  that  interview,  which  had  brought 
developments  of  which  he  had  not  dreamed. 
The  mining  claim  that  had  first  been  Bexar's 
and  had  been  transferred  by  him  to  Roger  and 
Barbara  Timberly,  a  transfer  of  which  he  had 
no  previous  knowledge,  was  now  Bream's  own 
property  and  had  developed  into  a  heavy  yielder 
of  high-grade  ore.  More  than  that,  Bream 
was  satisfied  that  he  had  himself  seen  Roger 
Timberly  in  the  Placer  Hotel  in  Cripple  Creek  ; 
and  it  was  he  who  had  contested  Bexar's  claim. 

Of  all  this  he  had  said  nothing  to  Barbara, 
but  had  patiently,  and  with  self-accusation, 
listened  to  her  story,  questioning  her  until  all 
the  facts  were  brought  out.  He  wanted  time 
to  think,  and  returned  to  the  quiet  of  the 
alcove,  where  in  mental  review  he  passed  over 
all  the  scenes  of  those  eventful  days. 

"  Yes,  it  must  have  been  Timberly,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "  It  could  n't  have  been  any  one 
148 


Looking  Backward 

else  ;  and  she  was  there  in  Cripple  Creek  while 
I  was  pushing  that  contest,  and  I  never  knew 
it.  I  may  have  seen  her  there,  for  she  says 
she  visited  the  claim ;  but  I  could  n't  have 
seen  her;  I  could  never  have  passed  that  face 
unnoticed,  and  I  could  never  have  forgotten  it." 

Recollections  of  all  the  incidents  of  those 
days  came  to  him  with  disturbing  clearness. 
He  recalled  the  fact  that  two  young  men,  one 
of  whom  he  now  believed  to  have  been  Roger 
Timberly,  had  entered  the  office  of  the  Placer 
Hotel  together  and  had  attracted  his  attention 
by  the  eagerness  with  which  they  were  discuss 
ing  the  Mancos  country  and  the  reported  dis 
coveries  of  gold  on  the  San  Juan. 

"It  was  San  Juan  instead  of  San  Diego," 
was  his  conclusion.  "  That  seems  to  be 
certain.  Jack  Nixon's  memory  was  at  fault, 
and  he  confounded  the  old  cliff  dwellings  of 
the  Mancos  with  the  ruined  mission  churches 
of  Southern  California.  That  sent  Barbara 
here,  though,  and  I  am  glad  of  that,  for  if  she 
had  sought  for  her  husband  in  the  San  Juan 
region  likely  I  should  never  have  met  her  or 
known  of  her.  The  question  now  is,  what  am 
I  to  do  ?  No  doubt  she  has  a  picture  of  her 
husband  —  of  the  man  who  was  her  husband, 
but  I  'm  not  ready  to  ask  to  see  it  yet.  I 
149 


Barbara 

must  think  this  thing  over.  The  whole  affair 
looks  to  be  a  series  of  remarkable  coincidences, 
with  myself  the  chief  villain  in  the  play." 

He  began  to  recall  the  details  of  the  conver 
sation  of  the  two  young  men,  and  recollected 
with  especial  clearness  the  feverish  eagerness 
with  which  Roger  had  spoken  of  the  cliff 
dwellings.  Roger  had  been  more  interested 
apparently  in  that  subject  than  in  the  reputed 
discoveries  of  gold  on  the  San  Juan.  To 
Bream,  those  old  ruins,  all  that  was  left  to  tell 
the  story  of  a  bygone  race,  were  not  of  re 
markable  significance,  but  to  a  man  of  Roger's 
temperament  and  quick  imagination  they  had 
been  wonderfully  suggestive.  He  recalled  how 
Roger  had  recited  with  much  earnestness  some 
pertinent  verses  in  Swinburnian  measure  from 
a  poem  by  Stanley  Wood,  of  Denver,  then  cur 
rent  in  Western  newspapers,  and  which  Bream 
himself  remembered  : 

"In  the  sad  Southwest,  in  the  mystical  Sunland, 

Far  from  the  toil  and  the  turmoil  of  gain  ; 
Hid  in  the  heart  of  the  only  —  the  one  land 

Beloved  of  the  Sun,  and  bereft  of  the  rain ; 
The  one  weird  land  where  the  wild  winds  blowing, 

Sweep  with  a  wail  o'er  the  plains  of  the  dead, 
A  ruin,  ancient  beyond  all  knowing, 
Rears  its  head. 


Looking  Backward 

"  On  the  canon's  side,  in  the  ample  hollow, 
That  the  keen  winds  carved  in  ages  past, 
The  Castle  walls,  like  the  nest  of  a  swallow, 

Have  clung  and  have  crumbled  to  this  at  last. 
The  ages  since  man's  foot  has  rested 

Within  these  walls  no  man  may  know  ; 
For  here  the  fierce  gray  eagle  nested 
Long  ago. 

"In  that  haunted  Castle  — it  must  be  haunted, 

For  men  have  lived  here,  and  men  have  died, 
And  maidens  loved,  and  lovers  daunted, 

Have  hoped  and  feared,  have  laughed  and  sighed 
In  that  haunted  Castle  the  dust  has  drifted, 

But  the  eagles  only  may  hope  to  see 
What  shattered  Shrines  and  what  Altars  rifted, 
There  may  be. 

"Those  castled  cliffs  they  made  their  dwelling, 
They  lived  and  loved,  they  fought  and  fell  ; 
No  faint,  far  voice  comes  to  us  telling 

More  than  those  crumbling  walls  can  tell. 
They  lived  their  life,  their  fate  fulfilling, 

Then  drew  their  last  faint,  faltering  breath, 
Their  hearts,  congealed,  clutched  by  the  chilling 
Hand  of  Death. 

"Dismantled  towers,  and  turrets  broken, 

Like  grim  and  war-worn  braves  who  keep 
A  silent  guard,  with  grief  unspoken, 

Watch  o'er  the  graves  by  the  Hoven-weep. 
The  nameless  graves  of  a  race  forgotten  ; 

Whose  deeds,  whose  words,  whose  fate  are  one 
With  the  mist,  long  ages  past  begotten, 
Of  the  Sun." 


Barbara 

Roger's  companion  had  been  more  inter 
ested  in  the  gold  fields  of  the  San  Juan,  appar 
ently,  for  time  and  again  he  had  brought  Roger 
back  to  the  discussion  of  that  subject ;  and 
Bream  recalled  the  emphasis  with  which  this 
young  man  had  stated  his  belief  that  there  were 
richer  mines  in  the  valley  of  the  San  Juan  and 
the  Mancos  country  than  had  yet  been  opened 
in  the  whole  Rocky  Mountain  region.  He  had 
exhibited  some  samples  of  ore,  too,  which  he 
said  had  been  brought  from  there  by  a  friend  and 
which  had  turned  out  some  wonderful  assays. 

As  Bream  thought  thus  over  the  matter, 
the  scene  in  the  Placer  Hotel  rose  before  him 
with  such  distinctness  that  he  seemed  to  be 
witnessing  it  again.  Roger  and  the  young 
man  were  seated  near  a  window  across  the 
room  from  him,  and  were  silhouetted  against 
a  background  of  hill  and  aspen  slope,  the  win 
dow  framing  them  in  like  a  picture.  At  first 
Bream's  opinion  had  been  that  Roger's  com 
panion  was  something  of  a  confidence  man, 
who  was  trying  to  "  work  "  Roger  for  what 
ever  amount  he  could,  but  as  the  talk  went 
on  Bream  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
young  man  meant  all  that  he  said.  He  was 
too  much  in  earnest  to  lend  color  to  any  other 
interpretation. 

'52 


Looking  Backward 

Once  it  had  been  on  Bream's  tongue  to 
interrupt  their  talk  and  ask  them  if  they  were 
not  aware  that  the  Utes  were  threatening  an 
outbreak  and  that  the  region  discussed  was 
considered  just  then  to  be  perilous  ground. 
On  second  thought,  however,  he  had  felt  sure 
they  could  not  be  ignorant  of  this,  as  it  was 
being  commented  on  daily  in  the  newspapers. 

Barbara  had  told  him  the  story  of  Bexar's 
claim,  but  in  that  hotel  office  in  Cripple  Creek 
Bream  had  heard  something  of  it  long  before. 
Roger  —  he  was  sure  now  the  young  man 
could  have  been  none  other  than  Roger  Tim- 
berly  —  took  a  legal-looking  document  from 
his  pocket  and  gave  it  to  his  companion  to 
read.  They  talked  of  the  document  and  of 
the  claim  which  it  mentioned.  It  was  Bexar's 
claim,  and  Roger  had  given  his  companion  a 
half-caricatured  description  of  that  eccentric 
fellow,  Joseph  Bexar,  who  had  been  miner  and 
prospector  and  no  one  knew  what  else,  and 
who,  visiting  Roger  in  Kansas,  had  given  to 
him  in  return  for  board  and  kindness  and  a 
small  consideration  this  claim.  Roger  had 
visited  the  claim,  too,  but  had  not  been  im 
pressed  with  its  apparent  value,  and  so  had 
not  as  yet  made  a  filing  of  this  transfer  from 
Bexar  to  himself,  though  the  time  in  which  a 


Barbara 

contest  could  be  put  on  the  claim  for  failure 
to  do  the  specified  work  required  by  the  govern 
ment  lacked  but  a  day  or  two  of  expiration. 

Bream  had  become  more  interested  in  this 
claim  in  Cripple  Creek  than  in  all  the  myth 
ical  wealth  of  the  San  Juan  and  the  Mancos, 
which,  with  its  ruined  cliff  dwellings,  seemed 
to  him  then,  and  still  seemed  to  him,  some 
what  of  a  fabulous  land,  rather  than  one  in 
which  there  were  real  treasures  of  gold  and 
silver.  There  was  nothing  fabulous  about  the 
gold  deposits  of  Cripple  Creek,  however,  as  he 
had  already  assured  himself;  and  as  he  listened, 
it  had  occurred  to  him  that  this  claim  of  Bexar's 
might  be  worth  looking  into.  As  its  present 
claimant  appeared  not  to  think  highly  of  it, 
Bream  decided  that  he  would  examine  it, 
and  promptly  begin  a  contest  for  it  if  the 
time  limit  was  permitted  to  expire.  "  Busi 
ness  "  had  always  been  "  business  "  with  Gil 
bert  Bream,  and  he  knew,  besides,  that  if  the 
claim  had  any  real  value  some  one  else  would 
contest  it  if  he  did  not. 

On  that  evening,  now  more  than  two  years 
and  a  half  ago,  another  man  —  a  miner  named 
Sam  Swainson  —  had  sat  at  the  desk  near 
Gilbert  Bream  and  had  overheard  that  conver 
sation.  Swainson  had  seemed  to  be  half  asleep 

"54 


Looking  Backward 

at  the  time,  though  after  events  had  proved 
conclusively  that  he  was  very  much  awake  and 
fully  alive  to  every  word  that  was  uttered. 

At  the  close  of  their  long  talk,  Roger  Tim- 
berly  and  his  new-found  friend  had  gone  out 
of  the  hotel  and  Bream  had  not  seen  them 
since.  He  had  visited  Bexar's  claim,  however, 
and  when  an  examination  had  shown  him  that 
it  was  likely  to  turn  out  well,  he  had  filed  a 
contest  against  Bexar  at  the  expiration  of  the 
time  limit ;  and  that  contest  had  been  before  the 
land  office  when  Barbara  came  to  Cripple  Creek. 
The  "  claim "  was  now  a  profitable  piece  of 
property  and  had  already  turned  in  to  Bream 
a  snug  profit  above  the  cost  of  operation. 

Turning  from  these  thoughts,  as  he  sat 
recalling  the  matter  in  the  alcove  of  the  library, 
Bream's  mind  went  back  to  Sam  Swainson. 
Swainson  had  been  a  drunken,  worthless  fellow, 
who  was  never  able  to  hold  for  any  length  of 
time  a  valuable  claim  even  when  he  secured 
one,  because  of  his  drinking  habits.  It  had 
been  Swainson's  intention  to  put  a  contest 
against  the  claim  ;  but  one  of  his  periodic  sprees 
had  supervened  and  permitted  Bream  to  get 
ahead  of  him  without  any  difficulty.  Swainson 
had  met  Bream  in  the  street  one  day,  after  dis 
covering  what  his  drunken  spree  had  cost 
'55 


Barbara 

him,  and  had  reproached  Bream  with  sharp 
dealing. 

"  You  're  a  damned  sc-coundrel  !  "  Swainson 
had  hiccoughed,  shaking  his  fist  under  Bream's 
nose  and  tottering  uneasily  on  his  tipsy  legs. 
"  You  're  a  (hie)  d-damned  scoundrel !  You 
(hie)  let  them  men  go  out  into  the  Mancos 
c-  (hie)  country  without  any  warnin',  when  you 
knew  the  d-d-  (hie)  danger ;  and  if  they  lose 
their  lives  you  're  (hie)  'sponsible  for  it. 
That 's  (hie)  what  you  are  —  'sponsible  for  it ! 
And  you  c-call  y'shelf  an  honest  (hie)  man  and 
a  gen'elmun.  Hell 's  fu-full  of  sh-  (hie)  shuch 
gen'elmun  as  you  are  (hie),  Gilbert  Bream. 
Just  (hie)  s-sloppin'  over  full  of  'em." 

These  were  stinging  words,  even  though 
they  had  come  from  a  drunken  man  of  the 
type  of  Sam  Swainson.  The  sting  of  them 
came  back  to  Gilbert  Bream  now,  as  he  sat  in 
the  quiet  alcove  thinking  the  matter  over.  Of 
course  Swainson's  anger  had  been  natural,  for 
he  had  been  defeated  in  his  desire  to  get  the 
claim  ;  nevertheless,  Bream  could  not  entirely 
escape  the  feeling  that  he  had  been  culpable 
in  not  giving  a  warning  to  the  strangers,  for, 
though  the  Utes  had  made  no  raid  nor  slain 
any  prospectors,  so  far  as  the  public  knew,  the 
desolate  deserts  beyond  the  Mancos  were  full 
'56 


Looking  Backward 

of  unknown  perils  for  which  those  young  men 
could  not  have  been  prepared. 

"  I  can't  see  even  yet  that  it  was  any  of  my 
business  !  "  Bream  remarked  aloud  in  the  quiet 
of  the  library,  unwittingly  speaking  the  words 
as  if  he  were  standing  before  the  bloated, 
accusing  face  of  Sam  Swainson.  But  even 
while  he  thus  sought  to  reassure  himself  Bar 
bara's  pitiable  expression  as  she  told  her  story 
rose  before  him  to  convince  him  that  under  all 
circumstances  every  man  is  to  some  extent  the 
keeper  of  his  brother. 

Bream  rose  from  his  seat  in  the  alcove  and 
began  to  walk  nervously  about  the  room,  as 
was  his  frequent  custom  when  considering  per 
plexing  questions. 

"  Ought  I  to  make  this  revelation  to  Bar 
bara  ?  "  was  the  question  that  troubled  him. 
"  If  I  do,"  was  his  thought,  "  she  will  leave  San 
Diego  and  plunge  without  due  consideration 
into  the  wilderness  of  the  San  Juan  in  her 
hopeless  search.  Of  course  Roger  Timberly  is 
dead.  I  don't  think  he  deserted  her,  but  he 
is  dead.  There  are  hundreds  of  ways  in  which 
he  might  have  lost  his  life  out  there.  His 
crazy  zeal  to  explore  those  old  cliff  houses 
would  lead  him  to  scale  heights  that  no  sane 
white  man  would  attempt.  Or  he  may  have 


Barbara 

been  murdered  by  the  Utes,  who  are  always 
ugly  and  treacherous,  and  are  thrown  into  a 
rage  whenever  a  prospector  invades  the  country 
over  which  they  fancy  they  have  jurisdiction. 
Or  he  may  have  been  slain  by  wild  animals,  or 
starved  to  death.  He  was  a  fool  for  ever  ven 
turing  into  such  a  country,  when  he  so  lacked 
experience,  and  he  has  paid  for  his  folly  with 
his  life.  It  would  be  worse  than  a  will-o'-the- 
wisp  chase  for  Barbara  to  go  there  on  such  an 
insane  quest,  and  at  this  season  of  the  year. 
It  would  simply  kill  her.  She  might  as  well 
commit  suicide  and  be  done  with  it ;  but  that 
is  just  what  she  will  do  if  I  tell  her  about 
Roger." 

In  all  the  turmoil  of  contending  thought 
Gilbert  Bream  never  for  a  moment  forgot  his 
great  love  for  Barbara  Timberly.  He  saw 
that  in  her  present  frame  of  mind,  with  Rogers 
fate  uncertain,  he  could  not  induce  her  to  listen 
willingly  to  any  suggestion  of  love  and  mar 
riage.  It  seemed  to  him,  therefore,  that  the 
first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  determine  the  na 
ture  of  Roger's  fate  and  produce  some  evidence 
that  he  was  no  longer  living.  If  it  could  be 
shown  that  he  was  dead,  or  had  basely  aban 
doned  her,  Bream  would  have  something  solid 
on  which  to  stand  ;  but  until  that  was  done, 


Looking  Backward 

any  foundation  he  might  build  for  his  hopes 
would  be  no  better  than  sinking  sand,  in  con 
stant  danger  of  being  washed  away  by  some 
tide  of  feeling. 

Certain  of  this,  and  sure  of  the  wisdom  of 
keeping  his  knowledge  to  himself,  Bream  began 
to  lay  plans  for  a  systematic  search  for  Roger 
Timberly.  The  fact  that  Barbara  had  failed 
did  not  discourage  him,  for  he  had  resources 
and  means  of  information  of  which  she  was  not 
possessed.  In  business  matters  Bream  never 
carried  his  heart  on  his  sleeve ;  few  successful 
business  men  do  ;  and  he  now  planned  to  treat 
this  proposed  search  for  Roger  as  a  business 
matter,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  it  was 
connected  so  strongly  with  his  consuming  love 
for  Barbara. 

When  he  had  thought  the  matter  out  thus 
carefully  he  left  the  library  and  the  house.  He 
did  not  want  Barbara  to  think  that  he  was 
moping  or  chafing  in  seclusion  ;  still  less  did 
he  wish  to  meet  his  sister  just  then. 

The  next  day  two  things  occurred  which 
seemed  to  Bream  almost  providential.  Mr. 
Lake,  whose  health  was  not  yet  re-established, 
asked  him  if  he  would  not  make  a  trip  to  Den 
ver  to  look  after  some  matters  of  business  that 
he  felt  to  be  in  jeopardy  without  competent 
'59 


Barbara 

personal  supervision ;  and  he  chanced  to  hear 
Mrs.  Lake  and  Barbara  commenting  on  Roger 
Timberly's  photograph,  which  Barbara  had 
brought  into  Mrs.  Lake's  sitting-room. 

Bream's  interest  was  so  stirred  by  the  knowl 
edge  that  such  a  photograph  was  in  existence 
that  he  determined  to  have  a  look  at  it ;  and, 
as  he  did  not  wish  Barbara  to  know  of  his  con 
templated  search,  he  likewise  desired  to  get  a 
look  at  this  picture  without  her  knowledge. 

Fortune  favored  him,  for  both  Barbara  and 
Mrs.  Lake  soon  afterward  left  the  house  with 
the  children,  and  he  knew  they  had  gone  out  for 
the  afternoon.  They  were  hardly  out  of  sight 
before  he  had  the  photograph  in  his  hand. 
He  could  not  mistake  it,  for  on  the  back  it 
bore  the  name  of  "  R.  H.  Timberly,"  and  when 
he  looked  at  the  face  portrayed  he  recognized 
it  at  once  as  that  of  the  young  man  who  had 
sat  by  the  window  of  the  office  in  the  Placer 
Hotel  exhibiting  to  his  companion  Bexar's 
relinquishment. 

"  They  will  not  be  back  for  hours/'  was  his 
thought,  as  he  studied  the  face  in  the  photo 
graph.  <£  I  ought  to  have  a  copy  of  this.  I 
am  working  for  Barbara's  peace  of  mind  as 
much  as  I  am  for  my  own.  I  must  prove  to 
her  that  this  man  is  dead.  She  refuses  to  rec- 

160 


Looking  Backward 

ognize  that  fact,  though  it  is  patent  to  every 
one  else.  This  picture  would  help  me  won 
derfully  in  securing  that  proof.  I  must  have 
a  copy  of  it.  It  looks  mean  not  to  tell  her 
that  I  want  it  and  why  I  want  it,  but  under 
the  circumstances  that  would  be  worse  than 
folly." 

Thus  reasoning,  Bream  did  not  find  it  diffi 
cult  to  convince  himself  that  Barbara's  real 
interests  justified  him  in  taking  the  photograph 
for  a  little  while ;  so  he  slipped  it  into  his 
pocket  and  took  his  way  to  a  photographer, 
an  alert  man  with  bulbous  eyes,  who,  being 
painfully  myopic,  stared  hard  at  the  picture. 

"  Ever  see  that  man  here  in  San  Diego  ?  " 
Bream  inquired. 

"  No,"  said  the  photographer  ;  "  I  was  just 
examining  the  work.  The  artist  who  posed 
this  man  didn't  understand  his  business!" 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Bream,  with  a  sense  of  relief; 
then,  a  moment  later  :  cc  You  are  certain  you 
never  saw  the  face  anywhere  ?  He  seems  to 
have  disappeared  mysteriously,  and  I  am  trying 
to  find  out  what  has  become  of  him." 

"  Never  saw  him  !  Friend  of  yours,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

Bream  dodged  an  answer  by  asking  if  nega 
tives  could  be  taken  at  once,  stating  that  he 
ii  161 


Barbara 

wanted  copies  both  of  the  photograph  and  of 
the  signature. 

c  Take  'em  this  minute  for  you,"  was  the 
prompt  answer,  "  but  it 's  a  pity  the  fellow 
was  n't  posed  better.  Photography  will  never 
become  the  art  it  should  be  so  long  as  its  ranks 
hold  such  bunglers/' 

Negatives  were  taken  ;  and  long  before  Bar 
bara  and  Mrs.  Lake  returned  to  the  house 
Roger  Timberly's  photograph  reposed  where 
Barbara  had  left  it. 


162 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE   SEARCH    FOR   ROGER   TIMBERLY 

GILBERT  BREAM  started  for  Denver 
and  Cripple  Creek  as  soon  as  copies 
of  the  photograph  and  signature  were  ready 
for  him,  entering  upon  his  self-imposed  task 
with  much  certainty  of  success.  His  resources 
were  ample  for  the  work ;  and  he  was,  more 
over,  acquainted  thoroughly  with  the  Rocky 
Mountain  mining  regions,  having  a  knowledge 
that  extended  not  only  to  the  configuration  and 
resources  of  the  country,  but  embraced  reliable 
and  confidential  correspondents  in  almost  every 
mining  camp. 

He  was  glad  to  leave  San  Diego  for  a  time, 
that  he  might  begin  this  work,  even  though  it 
involved  a  separation  from  Barbara.  Lake  was 
glad  to  have  him  go,  that  the  business  at  Den 
ver  might  have  competent  supervision  ;  and 
Bream  had  a  feeling  that  for  reasons  which 
solely  concerned  Barbara  and  himself  Mrs. 
Lake  was  also  pleased  to  have  him  forsake 
his  usual  winter  haunts  for  a  time.  As  to 

163 


Barbara 

what  Barbara's  feelings  were  on  the  subject  he 
could  only  guess,  for  her  face  and  manner 
betrayed  nothing,  but  he  hoped  she  was  not 
among  those  who  rejoiced  at  seeing  him 
depart. 

So  he  went  forth,  confident,  sure  that  Roger 
Timberly  was  dead,  never  admitting  for  a 
moment  there  was  any  likelihood  that  he 
might  be  found.  He  expected  to  secure 
proofs  of  Roger's  death,  with  which  he  could 
return  to  San  Diego,  and  thus  have  a  solid 
structure  on  which  to  stand  while  he  waged  a 
contest  for  Barbara's  affections.  He  did  not 
doubt  the  final  result  of  this  effort  any  more 
than  he  doubted  the  result  of  the  search  for 
the  man  who  had  gone  out  from  his  Kansas 
home  and  then  had  disappeared  so  strangely. 
Bream  was  out  of  the  Slough  of  Despond,  he 
had  passed  the  lions,  and  he  fancied  that 
straight  before  him  lay  the  shining  pathway 
to  the  beautiful  city  of  his  desires. 

In  spite  of  all  this  it  was  not  pleasant  to 
leave  the  summer-in-winter  of  Southern  Cali 
fornia  for  the  frigid  atmosphere  of  the  high 
plateaus  and  mountains  of  the  Centennial  State. 
Nothing  but  confident  hope  and  an  assured 
sense  that  this  was  a  thing  which  must  be  done 
before  he  could  expect  to  win  Barbara  could 

164 


The  Search  for  Roger  Timberly 

have  induced  Bream  to  leave  San  Diego  for 
Colorado  at  that  season.  His  first  sight  of  the 
snow  lying  among  the  pines  and  spread  out 
over  the  lava  slopes  of  the  San  Francisco 
mountains  was  not  pleasing  to  him,  and  this 
disagreeable  impression  was  intensified  by  the 
cold,  shining,  white  drifts,  wind-torn  winding 
sheets  for  all  the  sensitive  plant  life  of  the 
plains,  which  covered  the  country  between  the 
Raton  Pass  and  Denver. 

He  visited  Denver  first,  where  he  straight 
ened  out  the  business  complications  that  had 
worried  Lake ;  then  went  by  rail  to  Divide 
and  by  stage  to  Cripple  Creek,  thus  covering 
much  of  the  country  over  which  Barbara  had 
passed  when  she  sought  the  great  gold  camp  in 
her  search  for  Roger.  The  slender,  leafless 
aspens,  bending  under  the  northern  gales,  were 
now  but  mourning  wind-harps  singing  of  the 
vanished  summer,  and  writing  elegies  with 
wavering  tops  against  the  low,  leaden  wall  of 
the  sky.  Everywhere  the  snow  was  piled  in 
almost  impassable  drifts,  through  which  the 
laboring  horses  could  hardly  draw  the  stage. 
Pines  and  pinons,  firs  and  spruces,  bowed  their 
heads  mournfully  under  the  crushing  weight ; 
all  the  wind-blown  slopes  were  glittering  white, 
blindingly  so  whenever  the  sun  shone,  and  all 
165 


Barbara 

the  valleys  and  depressions  and  time-worn 
wrinkles  of  the  hills  were  smoothed  out  and 
covered  over  by  the  snow. 

Bream  was  in  no  mood  to  enjoy  this  change 
of  scenery  ;  though,  in  spite  of  all,  it  was  very 
beautiful  in  its  chilling  way,  and  some  of  the 
views  of  snow-clad  peaks,  set  on  fire  now  and 
then  by  the  winter  sunshine,  were  gloriously 
sublime.  He  was  in  a  hurry  to  reach  Cripple 
Creek,  and  the  snow  clogged  the  stage  road  and 
dragged  the  journey  out  to  a  torturing  length. 
Sometimes,  in  the  worst  places,  the  passengers 
dismounted  and  walked,  to  relieve  the  strug 
gling  horses,  and  this  plodding  along  over  the 
snow-buried  trail  tried  Bream's  temper. 

Cripple  Creek  was  reached  at  last,  however, 
and  Bream  was  ready  to  begin  the  work  that 
had  brought  him  thither.  He  had  thought  it 
best  to  begin  in  Cripple  Creek,  for  that  was  the 
place  where  Roger  Timberly  had  last  been  seen. 
He  believed  he  could  unearth  evidence  there 
which  Barbara  had  not  been  able  to  reach ; 
and,  having  chosen  the  Placer  Hotel  as  the 
place  where  he  should  enter  on  his  task,  he 
sent  for  Jack  Nixon. 

Cripple  Creek  was  chameleon-like  in  its 
changes,  but  there  was  no  observable  alteration 
in  the  appearance  of  Jack  Nixon  since  Bream 

1 66 


The  Search  for  Roger  Timberly 

had  seen  him  last.  His  boots  and  clothing  were 
as  coarse  and  clayed,  his  hands  as  hard  and 
rough,  his  face  as  tanned  and  his  eyes  as  keen 
as  ever.  Though  Bream  had  been  greeted  cor 
dially  and  even  effusively  by  Mrs.  Gibbs,  he 
had  been  careful  to  say  nothing  to  her  of  the 
mission  which  had  brought  him  to  Cripple 
Creek ;  and  now,  that  he  might  have  privacy 
for  his  interview  with  Nixon,  he  led  the  way 
to  his  room. 

"  Back  ag'in,"  said  Nixon,  depositing  his  hat 
on  the  floor  and  dropping  into  the  chair  which 
Bream  pointed  out.  "  I  reckon  you  ain't 
havin'  such  weather  as  this  down  in  San  Diego  ? 
Acquaintance  o'  mine  went  down  there  last  fall, 
but  't  ain't  likely  that  you  Ve  seen  her  !  " 

"  What  was  her  name?"  asked  Bream,  fum 
bling  with  his  watch  chain,  for  he  felt  sure  that 
Nixon's  reference  was  to  Barbara. 

"Timberly,"  said  Jack.  "Mrs.  Timberly. 
Fine  woman,  too,  and  purty  as  a  gold  nugget. 
She  lost  her  husband;  he  run  away  from  her, 
I  reckon,  or  mebbe  died.  It  hurt  her  like  the 
devil,  that  did.  I  felt  sorry  fer  her.  I  found 
some  old  letters  in  the  mine  one  day  and  give 
'em  to  her.  They  was  from  him  ;  then  she 
showed  me  his  picture,  and  I  recklected  that 
I  'd  seen  the  son-of-a-gun  at  this  here  hotel, 
167 


Barbara 

and  I  told  her  so,  and  that  he  'd  talked  of 
going  to  San  Diego;  and  then  she  cut  out  fer 
that  place  fast  as  trains  could  carry  her.  But 
I  reckon  you  did  n't  run  across  her  down 
there  ?  " 

Gilbert  Bream  looked  steadfastly  into  the 
tanned  face  and  keen  eyes.  He  seemed  to  be 
considering  the  matter. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  became  acquainted 
with  her  down  there.  She  is  now  the  gov 
erness  of  my  sister's  children,  in  fact.  And 
that  is  why  I  sent  for  you,  Jack.  She  told  me 
her  story,  you  see ;  and  I  thought,  while  I 
was  in  Cripple  Creek,  I  'd  paw  over  matters  a 
little  and  would  perhaps  be  able  to  tumble  to 
something  that  she  missed." 

He  was  adapting  his  style  of  speech  to  that 
of  the  young  mine  laborer. 

"  You  might  tell  me  the  story,  just  as  you 
told  it  to  her,"  he  urged. 

Jack  Nixon  was  glad  to  do  anything  that 
might  assist  Barbara  Timberly,  so,  while  Bream 
listened  attentively,  he  went  over  the  story 
again,  giving  all  the  details. 

"  And  you  have  n't  found  anything  more, 
or  heard  anything  since  ?  " 

"  Not  a  thing.  I  don't  reckon  that  the 
feller  was  square  with  her  myself,  though  I 
168 


The  Search  for  Roger  Timberly 

would  n't  tell  her  so.  A  chap  can't  well  drop 
out  of  sight  even  here  in  Cripple  Creek  with 
out  somebody  knowin'  it.  It 's  my  opinion 
that  he  give  her  the  dead  cold  shake.  If  he 
didn't,  if  he  just  went  away  from  here  and  got 
lost  or  somethin'  happened  to  him  afterward, 
why  did  n't  he  write  to  her  before  goin'  ? 
There  's  where  the  screw  is  loose  in  the  whole 
thing,  ye  see ;  but  she  did  n't  see  it,  and  of 
course  I  would  n't  tell  her.  It 's  a  durned 
shame,  too,  fer  she  's  a  mighty  fine  woman  !  " 

"  She  is  indeed,"  said  Bream,  with  such 
earnestness  that  Jack  Nixon  opened  his  eyes 
a  trifle.  Bream  observed  his  mistake  and  cor 
rected  it  by  saying : 

"  I  felt  sorry  for  her,  just  as  you  did,  Jack, 
when  she  told  me  her  story,  and  I  want  to  see 
if  I  can  find  out  what  has  become  of  this  hus 
band  of  hers,  if  he  's  living." 

Nixon's  keen  eyes  swept  the  face  before  him. 
Unselfish  devotion  to  the  interests  of  another 
had  not  been  a  characteristic  of  Gilbert  Bream 
during  his  stay  in  Cripple  Creek,  and  Nixon 
was  not  ready  to  credit  him  with  anything  of 
the  kind  now. 

"And  marry  her,  if  she's  a  widder  ! "   he 
said  bluntly.     "  It's  been  stickin'  in  my  craw 
that  that 's  what  you  're  up  to  !  " 
169 


Barbara 

Bream  frowned  and  showed  his  displeasure 
by  pulling  at  his  mustache. 

"  Don't  lose  yourself  in  wild  guesses,  Jack ! 
I  'm  working  on  the  square  in  this  thing,  and 
if  you  knew  me  better  you'd  know  it.  When 
you  sent  Mrs.  Timberly  to  San  Diego  you 
sent  her  on  a  wild-goose  chase.  I  heard  those 
same  men  talking  in  the  hotel  here,  and  it  was 
the  San  Juan  and  the  Mancos  country  they 
were  speaking  about." 

Nixon  forgot  his  displeasure  in  the  thought 
that  he  had  perhaps  made  a  mistake. 

"  Might  'a'  been,"  he  admitted.  "  It  was 
San  Something-or-other.  But  they  was  talk- 
in'  about  old  houses  —  mission  churches,  she 
thought." 

"  They  were  talking  about  the  cliff  dwellings 
in  the  Mancos  country  and  about  the  gold 
finds  on  the  San  Juan." 

"  Likely  you  're  right,"  said  Nixon,  after 
some  thought,  "  and  I  was  off  in  my  guess. 
'T  ain't  a  very  healthy  country  fer  a  man  out 
in  them  mountains  and  deserts ;  but  I  can't 
make  it  anything  else  but  that  he  pulled  up 
his  picket  pin  and  vamoosed  the  home  range. 
If  he  did  n't,  why  did  n't  he  write  to  her  ? 
Any  sort  of  a  man  would  'a'  done  that,  if  he 
keered  fer  his  wife." 

170 


The  Search  for  Roger  Timberly 

"  That 's  what  we  're  to  find  out,  Jack,  — 
why  he  left  Cripple  Creek  in  that  way,  without 
writing  to  her,  and  what  has  become  of  him. 
In  thinking  the  thing  over,  it  came  to  me  that 
perhaps  you  could  help  me  in  looking  the 
matter  up.  You  can  make  some  inquiries 
among  the  miners,  you  see,  and  report  to  me 
if  you  learn  anything.  The  miners  are  shift 
ing  about  a  good  deal,  with  new  men  coming 
in  all  the  time,  and  some  of  them  may  have 
heard  of  this  man  Timberly.  If  there  are  any 
men  in  the  Amazon  who  have  come  from  the 
San  Juan  country  or  the  Mancos,  it  might  pay 
you  to  question  them." 

He  rose  and  went  to  his  valise  and  took 
from  it  one  of  the  copies  of  Roger  Timberly's 
photograph. 

"  I  had  these  made  from  the  picture  Mrs. 
Timberly  had  with  her,"  he  explained,  "  to 
assist  me  in  this  work.  Take  this  one  to  show 
to  the  men  you  may  happen  to  talk  with  about 
the  matter.  If  any  of  them  have  seen  him,  it 
will  help  in  the  identification.  I  did  n't  tell 
her  that  I  intended  to  make  these  inquiries, 
and  if  I  find  nothing,  likely  I  shan't  say  any 
thing  to  her  about  it.  It  would  only  revive 
her  hopes  and  her  memories  of  her  husband, 
you  see ;  and  if  nothing  comes  of  it,  she 
171 


Barbara 

would  feel  worse  than  ever  because  of  the 
failure.  So,  in  making  your  inquiries,  you  '11 
need  to  be  a  little  careful  about  what  you 
say,  for  there  is  no  use  in  worrying  her  with 
the  knowledge  of  what  we  are  trying  to  do." 

Jack  Nixon  felt  that  this  was  a  sensible  and 
commendable  course  ;  and  though  he  had  small 
hope  that  anything  would  come  of  the  search, 
he  put  the  photograph  in  his  pocket,  amended 
his  opinion  of  Gilbert  Bream,  and  went  away  to 
do  what  he  could  to  help  in  the  investigation. 

In  addition  to  this  interview  with  Jack  Nixon, 
Bream  examined  the  tunnel  in  the  Amazon 
mine  where  the  packet  of  letters  had  been 
turned  up  by  Nixon's  spade ;  then  paid  a  visit 
to  Matthews,  in  the  office  of  the  "  Daily  Clip 
per."  A  man  from  Telluride  was  installed  in 
the  editorial  chair  which  Barbara  had  vacated ; 
and,  while  explaining  to  Matthews  the  object 
of  his  search  and  what  had  induced  him  to 
make  it,  using  in  substance  the  statements  that 
had  so  satisfied  Jack  Nixon,  Bream  showed 
the  photograph  to  the  new  editor,  for  Telluride 
is  not  far  from  the  borders  of  the  Mancos 
valley.  But  the  editor  had  never  seen  the 
man  whose  face  was  pictured  in  the  photograph, 
and  Matthews  had  no  new  information. 

"  Glad  to  know  that  Mrs.  Timberly  is  doing 
172 


The  Search  for  Roger  Timberly 

well,  and  glad  to  hear  from  her,"  said  Matthews, 
tapping  the  arm  of  his  swivel  chair  with  the 
butt  end  of  his  blue  pencil.  "  Capable  woman, 
that !  Head  as  full  of  knowledge  as  a  cyclo 
pedia,  and  brains  to  beat  the  band.  She  ought 
to  be  a  good  judge,  and  it  was  her  opinion  that 
her  husband  was  as  smart  as  a  steel  trap ;  if  he 
was  smarter  than  she  is,  he  must  have  been  a 
wonder.  But  if  he  left  her  he  was  a  fool,  and 
if  he  lost  himself  in  the  Mancos  he  was  an 
idiot." 

Bream  took  the  picture,  placed  it  in  his 
pocket  and  prepared  to  go.  The  visit  had 
yielded  nothing. 

"  If  I  can  help  you  in  any  way ! "  said 
Matthews.  "  I  reckon  it  would  n't  do  any 
good  to  publish  anything  in  the  c  Clipper/ 
She  did  that  when  she  first  came  here,  but  it 
was  only  a  waste  of  space  and  crowded  out 
good  advertisements.  I  don't  think  you  Jll 
ever  hear  from  the  fellow.  Let 's  see  !  It 
will  soon  be  three  years  since  he  went  away. 
He  's  dead  all  right,  I  guess ;  or  if  he  ain't,  he 
never  intends  to  come  back.  If  he  left  her, 
it 's  my  opinion  that  it  was  good  riddance  to 
bad  rubbish.  I  wish  you  luck,  though." 

"  I  have  n't  any  great  hopes  myself,"  said 
Bream,  "  but  I  had  to  make  a  trip  to  Colorado, 


Barbara 

you  see,  and  I  felt  it  to  be  my  duty  to  find 
out  what  I  could  for  her,  if  there  is  anything 
to  be  found  out.  If  you  hear  anything,  send 
word  to  me  at  the  Placer  Hotel.  I  shall  stop 
there  while  I  'm  in  the  town." 

Quitting  the  "  Clipper  "  office  after  this  un 
profitable  talk,  Bream  tramped  through  the 
heavy  snow  out  to  the  mine  which  had  been 
Bexar's  claim.  He  had  no  hope  that  he  could 
gain  any  information  of  Roger  Timberly  there, 
but  the  mine  was  now  his  property  and  he  had 
not  seen  it  for  some  time.  As  he  approached 
it  he  looked  it  over,  —  the  tall  shaft,  with  the 
mound  of  dump  behind  it  showing  brown  and 
yellow  through  the  white  snow,  the  little  ore- 
carts  on  the  snowed-in  track,  the  smoke  and 
steam  from  the  hoisting  engine  rising  white  and 
cold  in  the  frosty  air  above  the  cheap  buildings 
and  spreading  out,  fan-like,  against  the  whiter 
background  of  hills  and  mountains.  That  mine 
had  been  the  claim  which  had  lured  Roger  Tim 
berly  to  Cripple  Creek,  and  had  sent  Barbara 
finally  to  San  Diego  and  to  her  acquaintance 
with  Gilbert  Bream. 

cc  I  will  make  it  right  with  her,"  he  said,  in 
self-communion,  as  he  stood  in  the  snow,  but 
toned  to  the  chin  in  his  heavy  fur  overcoat, 
his  mittened  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets. 

J74 


The  Search  for  Roger  Timberly 

"  Whatever  happens,  I  will  make  it  right 
with  her  about  this  mine.  If  she  should 
ever  become  my  wife,  the  property  can  stand 
in  her  name,  and  if  that  should  never  be!"  — 
he  checked  himself  with  a  spasmodic  twitch  — 
"  if  that  should  never  be,  I  will  transfer  the 
mine  to  her  and  give  her  a  check  for  every 
cent  of  its  earnings ;  yes,  I  '11  do  that,  even  if 
Timberly  is  living  and  she  should  go  back  to 
him  as  his  wife.  The  property  is  hers  !  But 
I  'm  glad  that  I  made  that  contest  and  so  got 
possession  of  it.  If  Swainson  had  beaten  me, 
it  would  have  been  gone  from  her  forever.  It 
does  seem  sometimes  as  though  there  must 
be  a  Providence  that  is  guiding  everything; 
else  how  did  it  happen  that  I  should  be  the 
one  to  contest  that  claim  and  should  be  here 
now  in  this  search  ?  Of  course  Timberly  is 
dead ;  I  'm  sure  of  that,  and  sooner  or  later 
I  '11  have  the  proofs.  And  then  —  " 

He  clinched  his  mittened  hands  resting  in 
the  warm  fur  pockets,  set  his  jaw  firmly,  and 
walked  into  the  nearest  building,  where  the 
big  hoisting  drum  was  booming  and  whirring, 
the  ore  and  dump  buckets  rising  and  falling, 
and  the  steaming  engine  panting  under  the 
strain  of  its  heavy  labor. 

As  Bream  returned  from  this  visit  to  the 
T75 


Barbara 

mine,  trudging  thoughtfully  back  through  the 
heavy  snow  to  the  Placer  Hotel  in  the  face  of 
an  icy  wind  that  swept  down  from  Pike's  Peak, 
he  stumbled  against  Sam  Swainson.  The  lat 
ter,  who  had  descended  rapidly  in  the  scale  of 
degradation,  looked  disreputable  to  the  last 
degree,  and  his  bearded  face  was  flushed  with 
drink.  Bream  sought  to  avoid  a  meeting,  but 
Swainson  lurched  toward  him  with  an  insulting 
leer.  He  swayed  for  a  moment,  clutched  at 
a  lamp  post,  then  straightened  up  and  looked 
Bream  in  the  face. 

"  Don'  know  me,  eh  ? "  he  questioned. 
"  Well,  I  know-er-know  you  all  right. 
You  're  Gilbert  Bream." 

He  surveyed  the  fur  coat  and  the  warm 
close-fitting  cap,  and  hiccoughed  tipsily. 

"  Dressed  in  sealskins  and  silks,  eh  ?  — 
stickin*  (hie)  feathers  in  your  hair  an'  flyin' 
high,  ain't  you  ?  but  there  ain't  no  great  dif 
ference  (hie)  'tween  us !  If  you  had  n't  got 
ahead  o'  me  in  that  mine  I  might  'a'  been 
flyin'  'z  high  'z  you." 

"  Get  out  of  my  way  !  "  Bream  commanded. 

Swainson  clung  to  the  lamp  post  and  straight 
ened  himself  again. 

"  No,  I  don't  —  not  on  yer  life  !  I  'm  as 
good  as  you,  and  you  're  a  damned  cheatin' 

176 


The  Search  for  Roger  Timberly 

sc-scoundrel  !  That's  what  you  are,  Gilbert 
Bream,  a  damned  cheatin'  (hie)  scoundrel  ! 
You  le'  that  feller  go  'way,  wis'out  (hie)  tellin' 
him  ;  tha's  what  you  did  —  wis'out  (hie)  tell- 
in'  him ;  an'  then  you  (hie)  jumped  his  claim. 
Oh,  I  know  you  —  I  've  got  y-your  character 
down  's  fine  's  a  gnat's  heel  !  " 

He  swayed  forward  and  shook  his  puffy 
forefinger  in  Bream's  face,  his  bloated  features 
working  with  hatred  and  his  red  eyes  glittering. 

"  Get  out  of  my  way,  or  I  '11  knock  you 
down,  you  loafer !  "  Bream  shouted,  beside 
himself  with  rage. 

"No,  I  won't  —  not  till  I  (hie)  tell  you  jes' 
what  I  shink  o'  you,  Gilbert  Bream.  You  're 
a  damned  scoundrel !  You  jumped  that  claim, 
an'  you  let  'im  go  wis'out  (hie)  tellin'  him.  I  've 
got  that  chalked  down  ag'in  ye,  Gilbert  Bream 
—  I  have.  Now  you  're  up,  an'  I  'm  (hie) 
down.  But  th'  world  ain't  ended  yit,  an*  ever- 
shing  comes"  —  he  swayed  tipsily  —  "comes 
t'  th'  man  't  waits." 

Bream  would  listen  to  no  more,  but  brushed 
Swainson  aside  and  strode  on  to  the  hotel,  much 
disgusted  and  more  disquieted  than  he  was  will 
ing  to  own.  Not  that  he  feared  the  vaporings 
of  a  man  like  Swainson,  but  the  bitter  accusa 
tions  stung  in  a  strange  way,  and  he  could  not 


Barbara 

make  up  his  mind  fully  that  some  of  them 
were  not  deserved.  However,  he  cast  the  inci 
dent  aside  as  not  worthy  of  thought,  and  suc 
ceeded  in  forgetting  the  unpleasant  qualms  after 
awhile,  and  so  went  on  with  his  search. 

This  search  he  conducted  with  a  system  that 
was  characteristic  and  an  energy  that  was  un 
flagging.  He  practically  organized  a  bureau 
of  inquiry  which  covered  the  entire  mining 
West.  He  sent  copies  of  the  photograph  and 
signature  to  correspondents  in  every  city  and 
mining  camp ;  he  had  men  everywhere  looking 
for  Roger  Timberly,  under  whatever  name  or 
disguise  the  latter  might  be  living ;  and  in 
addition  he  employed  the  best  detectives  of 
Denver  to  trace  out  every  clue  that  was  in 
the  remotest  degree  promising.  The  work 
was  conducted  quietly,  too ;  and  under  all  its 
disguises  it  was  a  search  for  Roger  Timberly 
dead  rather  than  for  Roger  Timberly  living. 
Bream  believed  that  Roger  was  dead,  and  he 
had  come  for  the  proofs.  In  addition  to  all 
this,  he  wrote  to  a  discreet  lawyer  in  Paragon, 
believing  it  possible  that  if  Roger  were  living 
he  might  have  made  a  visit  to  the  land  claim 
in  Kansas,  and  he  employed  another  discreet 
man  to  trace  Joseph  Bexar. 

For    a    time    t^ie    result    seemed    to    show 


The  Search  for  Roger  Timberly 

that  Roger  Timberly  was  dead,  and  that  he 
had  gone  to  his  mysterious  death  without 
leaving  so  much  as  a  word  or  a  hint  behind 
him  to  tell  of  his  fate.  If  he  had  not  done 
that,  the  indications  were  that  he  had  departed 
from  the  country  entirely,  perhaps  for  the  pur 
pose  of  starting  life  anew  in  some  remote  place. 
Bream  was  loath  to  believe  this,  however,  and 
almost  succeeded  in  convincing  himself  beyond 
a  doubt  that  Roger  was  dead.  Bexar  was  dead  ; 
of  that  fact  he  secured  positive  knowledge ; 
and  Bexar  had  left  no  heirs  behind  him,  so 
that  neither  in  law  nor  in  equity  nor  on  any 
grounds  whatever  could  any  righteous  claim 
for  the  mine  come  from  that  source. 

Only  one  thing  concerning  Roger  Timberly 
seemed  to  be  established  beyond  peradventure. 
Neither  Roger  nor  his  companion,  granting 
that  he  left  Cripple  Creek  with  a  companion, 
had  been  killed  by  the  Utes.  It  could  hardly 
be  doubted  that  if  any  such  killing  had  oc 
curred  it  would  have  become  known  to  the  au 
thorities  ;  for,  through  means  of  reservations 
and  hard-riding  pistoling  troopers,  "  Poor  Lo  " 
is  "  rounded  up  "  and  hunted  down  in  a  man 
ner  that  most  effectively  discourages  scalp-tak 
ing  and  makes  it  hard  for  him  to  hide  his  evil 
deeds.  There  were  innumerable  ways,  how- 

179 


Barbara 

ever,  aside  from  the  desires  of  murderous  In 
dians,  in  which  Roger  Timberly  might  have 
met  his  end.  Men  were  being  dynamited 
out  of  existence  daily  through  accidents,  were 
tumbling  to  their  deaths  in  bottomless  canons, 
were  being  buried  in  land  slides  and  in  ava 
lanches  of  snow,  and  crushed  by  falling  rocks 
in  the  bowels  of  deep  mines.  Such  casualties 
were  so  common  that  little  note  was  taken  of 
them,  and  often  the  names  of  the  men  were  not 
even  mentioned  in  the  newspapers. 

Bream  received  many  letters  from  Mrs.  Lake 
detailing  the  doings  of  the  Lake  family,  let 
ters  which  contained  much  gossipy  information 
concerning  Barbara.  These  served  to  keep 
him  in  touch  with  life  in  San  Diego,  and  wafted 
to  him  so  much  of  its  genial  atmosphere  that 
the  icy  winds  of  Cripple  Creek  went  more  se 
verely  to  his  marrow.  He  answered  the  let 
ters  with  brotherly  promptness,  chiefly  because 
of  their  many  references  to  Barbara,  though  he 
sent  not  a  word  to  her  directly. 

As  he  sat  one  evening  in  his  room  at  the 
Placer  Hotel,  contemplating  the  reports  that 
had  come  from  his  correspondents  and  assuring 
himself  that  his  work  was  ended  and  there  was 
no  more  for  him  to  do,  Mrs.  Gibbs  tapped  on 
the  door  and  thrust  in  a  letter  which  had  been 

180 


The  Search  for  Roger  Timberly 

brought  up  to  the  hotel  with  others  from  the 
post  office.  As  he  glanced  at  the  envelope  he 
saw  that  the  letter  was  from  his  correspondent 
in  the  San  Juan  country,  a  section  to  which  he 
had  devoted  much  attention,  but  up  to  that 
time  without  result.  Nevertheless,  as  he  tore 
open  the  envelope  a  strange  trembling  seized 
him. 

<c  I  think  I  have  found  your  man  !  "  were 
the  first  words  that  caught  his  eyes  as  he  un 
folded  the  letter. 

He  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  gasp  of  surprise 
and  trepidation  and  proceeded  to  read  the  com 
munication  : 

u  He  is  in  Feather  Bow  Camp,  in  the  mountains 
back  of  Silverton.  I  have  n't  been  able  to  get  up 
there  because  of  the  heavy  snows,  but  I  Jm  dead  sure 
that  I  have  struck  the  trail  at  last.  His  description 
tallies  exactly  with  the  photograph  and  with  what  you 
wrote  me.  He  came  from  the  Mancos  country,  over 
the  mountain  trail  from  Ouray,  and  went  up  to 
Feather  Bow  with  the  rest  of  the  gang  last  fall.  He 
is  a  little  off  in  his  head,  I  think,  from  what  I  heard 
about  him,  or  else  he  is  playing  a  game,  which  it  seems 
to  me  is  more  likely.  He  told  contradictory  stories 
when  he  was  in  Silverton.  One  man  tells  me  that 
he  first  claimed  that  he  was  from  Kansas  and  that  he 
said  his  name  was  Timberlake;  but  after  that,  foi 

181 


Barbara 

some  reason,  he  seems  to  have  changed  his  name  to 
Iselin  or  Iceland  Snow.  '  Ice '  and  '  Snow '  are 
good,  when  you  come  to  think  of  the  conditions  at 
Feather  Bow.  The  name  is  a  fake,  sure.  It 's  my 
opinion  that  he  told  the  man  Timberly,  instead  of 
Timberlake  ;  and,  to  hide  his  identity,  perhaps  because 
he  may  have  killed  the  man  he  set  out  with  from 
Cripple  Creek,  he  changed  his  name.  Feather  Bow 
is  a  good  place  to  hide  in,  if  a  man  feels  that  it  stands 
him  in  hand  to  hide  awhile.  To  make  the  story 
short :  I  've  dug  all  round  the  roots  of  the  matter,  and 
I  know  I  have  found  your  man  —  this  fellow  Tim 
berlake,  or  Iselin  Snow,  at  Feather  Bow.  You  can't 
get  at  him  though,  there,  at  this  season  of  the  year." 

When  he  read  the  letter  through,  Bream  sat 
staring  at  it  as  if  in  a  daze.  Had  he  found 
Roger  Timberly  at  last?  However  much  he 
had  tried  to  conceal  it  from  himself,  he  knew 
now  that  he  did  not  want  to  find  him,  if  he 
were  living.  If  Timberly  were  dead  he  would 
be  glad  to  find  him,  to  get  the  proofs  of  his 
death. 

"  Swainson  is  right ;  I  must  be  a  villain  ! " 
he  said  to  himself  as  he  stared  at  the  letter. 
"  But  I  refuse  to  believe  that  this  man  is  Roger 
Timberly.  Timberlake  is  n't  Timberly,  if  it 
does  sound  something  like  it ;  and  the  fact  that 
the  fellow  changed  his  name  is  no  sign  that  he 

182 


The  Search  for  Roger  Timberly 

is  the  man  I  want,  even  if  he  does  resemble 
the  photograph  and  the  description.  A  simi 
larity  of  looks  is  common  enough.  No,  this 
fellow  can't  be  Roger  Timberly ;  I  refuse  to 
credit  it." 

He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand  and  threw 
it  into  the  waste  basket ;  only  to  take  it  out, 
smooth  out  the  wrinkles  and  read  it  again. 
The  more  he  read,  the  more  was  his  belief 
shaken  that  the  man  could  not  be  Timberly. 

"  I  '11  find  out !  "  he  said,  with  hard  deter 
mination,  putting  the  letter  in  its  envelope  for 
future  reference.  "  I  '11  find  out.  I  can  go  to 
Feather  Bow,  even  if  this  fool  says  that  he 
can't.  I  must  go  there.  I  'd  struggle  through 
snows  to  the  North  Pole,  if  it  were  necessary, 
to  settle  this  question.  I  '11  see  this  man  and 
prove — God!  what  if  he  should  be  Roger 
Timberly  ?  " 

Having  half  risen  from  his  chair  in  his  ex 
citement,  he  sank  back,  weak  and  trembling. 
He  took  out  the  letter  and  read  it  again.  His 
resolve  became  iron. 

"  I  '11  go  to  Feather  Bow  !  "  he  said  aloud. 
"  I  '11  go  at  once  !  " 


183 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE    MAN    AT   FEATHER   BOW 

THE  next  morning  the  stage  that  wallowed 
out  of  Cripple  Creek  bore  Gilbert 
Bream  through  the  deep  snows  to  Canon  City. 
The  grade  stakes  for  an  extension  of  the 
Denver  and  Rio  Grande  railway  to  the  now 
famous  gold  camp  showed  here  and  there, 
where  the  wind  had  blown  the  snow  from  the 
ridges ;  but  this  same  wind  had  so  heaped  the 
drifts  in  the  hollows  that,  where  they  were  not 
cemented  by  an  admixture  of  sand  and  earth 
into  an  adamantine  firmness,  they  were  a  white 
smother,  through  which  it  seemed  hopeless 
for  the  horses  to  try  to  go. 

So  journeying,  by  stage  to  Canon  City,  and 
thence  by  rail  through  tunnelling  snow-sheds 
and  across  volcanic  wastes,  where  the  eruptive 
raggedness  of  the  landscape  was  softened  by 
the  white  garments  of  winter,  he  came  at  last 
to  Silverton,  ringed  in  by  its  mountains  in  the 
heart  of  silver  San  Juan.  Even  to  a  man  so 
used  to  the  mountains  as  Gilbert  Bream  this 
snowy  trip  would  have  been  an  interesting  bit 
184 


The  Man  at  Feather  Bow 

of  experience  but  for  the  fact  that  he  could  not 
keep  his  mind  off  the  letter  which  had  sent 
him  thus  scurrying  along.  Hence  he  missed 
much  of  the  beauty  of  the  little  narrow-gauge 
route  over  the  wild  mountains  by  Toltec 
Gorge,  and  the  peaceful  loveliness  of  the  rich 
pasture  lands  of  Los  Pinos  Valley,  where  the 
painted  tepees  of  the  Southern  Utes  gave  a 
dash  of  barbaric  color  to  the  quiet  landscape. 
But  even  his  worried  introspection  could  not 
render  him  wholly  oblivious  of  the  stupendous 
grandeur  of  the  great  gorge  lying  between  Du- 
rango  and  Silverton,  —  the  wonderful  Canon 
of  Las  Animas,  or  Rio  Las  Animas  del  Per- 
didas,  as  the  old  Spaniards  called  it.  Here,  a 
thousand  feet  above  the  bed  of  the  tortuous 
river,  on  a  track  as  crooked  as  the  trail  of  a 
snake,  where  in  blasting  out  the  roadbed  the 
workmen  were  often  compelled  to  "  hang  on 
by  their  eyebrows,"  the  little  train  roared  and 
whirred  northward,  swaying  perilously  over 
deep  pine-filled  crevices,  screaming  past  granite 
walls  banded  and  streaked  in  all  the  colors  of 
the  rainbow,  by  sheer  precipices  of  naked 
stone,  all  aglitter  with  fretted  frost-work,  and 
on  and  on  amid  scenes  that  have  few  counter 
parts  outside  of  our  own  great  mountain 
regions. 

185 


Barbara 

"  If  the  train  should  leave  the  track  here, 
not  a  soul  would  live  to  tell  the  tale  !  "  thought 
Bream,  as  he  looked  into  the  dizzy  depths 
from  the  car  window  —  the  reflection  of  every 
one  who  has  ever  made  the  railway  journey  up 
this  wild  canon. 

He  found  Silverton  snow-bound  and  impos 
sible  of  access  except  by  way  of  the  railroad. 
It  was  a  white  bowl  in  the  hollow  of  the 
mountains,  with  the  town  in  its  centre  showing 
like  the  lines  of  coffee  grounds  in  the  cup 
from  which  the  wrinkled  fortune-teller  forecasts 
the  future  for  the  credulous. 

Feather  Bow  was  a  few  miles  from  Silverton, 
far  above  the  timber  line,  on  a  gorge-cut 
mountain.  To  it,  during  the  summer  days, 
everything,  including  the  coal  consumed  in  the 
furnaces,  was  "  packed  "  by  "jack  train,"  the 
said  "jack  train"  consisting  of  big  mules  that 
were  as  sure-footed  as  mountain  goats.  For 
six  months  of  each  year  the  miners  of  Feather 
Bow  were  cut  off  from  the  world  by  howling 
snow-storms  and  deadly  avalanches,  with  the 
exception  of  perhaps  once  a  month,  when  a 
man  slipped  down  to  the  town  on  skis  for 
the  mail  and  climbed  back  with  it  by  infinite 
effort  to  the  eagle-like  aerie.  The  imprisoned 
miners  would  have  their  mail  when  it  could  be 

186 


The  Man  at  Feather  Bow 

obtained,  though  life  itself  was  risked  in  the 
attempt  to  get  it. 

To  this  place  had  come  Gilbert  Bream,  with 
the  intention  of  reaching  Feather  Bow,  know 
ing  in  advance  all  the  difficulties  and  the 
awful  hazard  ;  to  this  place  and  to  face  these 
perils,  for  love  of  a  woman,  who,  if  the  writer 
of  the  letter  had  guessed  correctly,  would  be 
lost  to  him,  as  he  felt,  forever.  So  much  will 
love  do  for  a  man  when  it  has  stormed  and 
captured  the  citadel  of  his  heart. 

As  soon  as  he  set  foot  in  the  town  Bream 
found  his  way  to  a  hotel  and  began  to  make 
inquiries  concerning  the  possibility  of  reaching 
Feather  Bow.  The  landlord  shook  his  head. 

"  Better  not  risk  it,"  he  said.  "  There  are 
no  trails  and  the  storms  have  been  heavy.  We 
got  the  tail  end  of  a  big  snow-slide  here  the 
other  day.  Some  of  it  came  right  down  into 
the  town.  Two  men  were  killed,  and  old 
DashieFs  house  out  there  under  the  mountain 
was  carried  away  as  if  it  had  been  a  chip. 
Money  could  n't  hire  me  to  try  it.  Tim 
Anderson  came  down  yesterday  for  the  mail, 
but  I  don't  think  he  will  try  to  go  back  for 
awhile ;  he  '11  be  a  big  fool  if  he  does.  The 
mail  will  keep." 

"  Came  down  from  Feather  Bow  ? "  was 
187 


Barbara 

Bream's  eager  question.  "  Where  will  I  find 
this  man  Anderson  ?  " 

"  Up  about  the  post  office  likely.  But  I 
don't  think  he  '11  try  to  go  back  right  away. 
I  don't  reckon  he  's  any  more  anxious  to  com 
mit  suicide  than  some  other  people.  For  my 
part,  I  don't  know  how  he  got  down.  Must 
have  let  all  holds  go  and  fell." 

"  The  weather  is  n't  threatening,"  Bream 
urged.  "  He  will  not  wait  for  another  storm 
to  come,  and  if  he  goes  I  can  go.  I  think  I  '11 
look  him  up." 

The  landlord  led  the  way  to  the  door  and 
pointed  to  a  purple  line  over  the  northern 
mountain  wall  —  a  line  that  looked  almost 
black  against  the  wonderful  azure  of  the  sky. 

"  See  that  ?  I  've  lived  here  for  some  time, 
and  that  line  always  means  trouble.  It  may 
not  come  to-day  nor  to-morrow,  but  it  will 
come.  Dead  sure  sign  of  a  storm  that  is,  and 
a  good  one.  If  you  '11  take  my  advice  you 
won't  try  to  make  it  to  Feather  Bow  until 
after  you  've  seen  what  that  storm  is  going  to 
be.  Better  wait  till  spring ;  that 's  the  safest 
way,  and  the  only  sensible  one,  to  my  notion." 

However,  Gilbert  Bream  was  not  a  man  to 
be  deterred  by  the  threat  of  a  snow-storm. 
He  had  been  in  snow-storms  and  had  fought 
188 


The  Man  at  Feather  Bow 

blinding  blizzards.  He  did  not  despise  them; 
he  knew  their  terrors  and  their  perils  too  well 
for  that.  But  he  could  not  delay  in  this  matter. 
"  Wait  till  spring  !  "  He  could  not  think  of  it. 

So  he  sought  Tim  Anderson,  who  had  come 
down  from  Feather  Bow  for  the  mail.  Bream 
found  him  at  last  in  a  saloon  warming  himself 
with  a  hot  drink.  Anderson  was  a  man  of  mid 
dle  height,  narrow  shouldered  but  sinewy,  with 
a  face  like  old  parchment,  and  hard  knuckly 
hands  whose  fingers  were  stiffened  by  much 
use  of  the  pick  and  shovel.  He  was  garbed 
for  severe  weather,  in  a  great  fur  coat  with  the 
hair  side  out,  and  a  cap  of  badger  skins.  The 
big  coat  flapped  open  in  front  and  the  thick 
collar  was  turned  back.  On  the  saloon  bar  lay 
his  snow  goggles  and  in  a  corner  of  the  room 
stood  his  long  skis.  This  man  had  seen  the 
one  who  was  referred  to  in  the  letter — the  man 
who  was  possibly  Roger  Timberly  himself! 
That  was  Bream's  thought,  as  he  beheld  An 
derson  before  the  bar. 

"  I  'd  like  a  few  words  with  you, "  said 
Bream,  "in  private,  if  you  have  nothing  else 
to  do  just  now." 

Anderson  had  put  down  his  glass  and  stood 
talking  with  the  barkeeper. 

"Sure!"  he  said,  giving  Bream  a  keen 
189 


Barbara 

glance.  Having  never  seen  Bream  before  he 
wondered  what  the  latter  could  want  with  him, 
but  followed  him  into  a  small  side  room,  where 
were  some  tables  and  chairs. 

"  I  want  to  go  up  to  Feather  Bow,"  said 
Bream,  plunging  at  once  into  his  subject. 
"  There  is  a  man  up  there,  I  believe,  by  the 
name  of  Iselin  or  Iceland  Snow.  You  know 
him,  I  suppose?" 

"  Sure  !  Queer  cuss,  too ! "  remarked  Ander 
son,  flinging  his  cap  on  the  table  and  elevating 
his  feet  to  the  same  position,  while  he  tipped 
back  his  chair.  "  He  '11  do  to  tie  to,  though, 
when  it  comes  to  work,  and  he  's  got  as  much 
sand  in  his  craw  as  a  game  rooster.  He  's  a 
good  deal  of  an  old  bull  buffalo,  when  it  comes 
to  solitary  —  never  says  much,  ye  see ;  but 
when  the  cave-in  happened  a  month  ago  in  the 
new  tunnel  and  Lon  Hopkins  got  pinned  under 
the  rock  with  his  leg  broke,  Snow  he  went  in 
there  when  there  was  n't  any  of  the  rest  of  us 
dared  do  it  for  fear  the  whole  danged  tunnel 
would  come  down  on  us,  and  got  Hopkins 
out.  The  boys  swear  by  the  feller  now,  if  he 
is  a  bit  queer  in  his  cupalow." 

"That 's  the  man  I  want  to  see,"  said  Bream, 
feeling  for  the  photograph  in  his  pocket. 
"  How  old  is  he  ?  " 

190 


The  Man  at  Feather  Bow 

Anderson  gave  him  a  searching  glance. 

"You  ain't  wantin'  him  for  any  trouble?" 
he  asked  suspiciously.  "  'Cause  if  you  air, 
I  reckon  you'd  better  not  try  to  go  up 
there!" 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,"  Bream  assured. 
"  I  'm  looking  for  a  man  who  has  been  sup 
posed  to  be  dead  for  a  good  while.  It  will 
mean  a  good  deal  to  his  wife  if  he  can  be 
found.  I  am  acting  in  her  interests." 

He  produced  the  photograph,  and  briefly 
told  the  story. 

"  Is  that  the  man  ?  "  he  asked,  scarcely  able 
to  conceal  his  uneasiness  as  Anderson  studied 
the  picture. 

"  What  was  the  name  of  this  feller  ? "  An 
derson  inquired,  giving  Bream  another  suspi 
cious  glance. 

"  Timberly.  I  Ve  heard  that  this  man 
Snow  once  called  himself  Timberlake.  That's 
a  good  deal  like  it,  you  see.  You  say  the  fel 
low  is  queer,  and  perhaps  he  has  changed  his 
name.  It's  done  sometimes,  you  know,  in 
these  mountains." 

"  Whatever  he  's  done,  or  whatever  his  name 
may  be,  the  boys  would  n't  let  any  man  take 
him  out  of  camp.  They'd  fight  first." 

Bream's  heart  gave  an  unpleasant  leap. 
191 


Barbara 

"  He  is  the  same  man,  then,  whose  face  you 
see  there  in  the  photograph  ! " 

"  Snow  wears  a  beard,"  said  Anderson,  as  if 
desiring  to  hedge.  cc  I  could  n't  say  that  this 
is  the  same  feller." 

"But  you  think  he  is?" 

"  I  dunno  ;  I  could  n't  say.  A  beard  makes 
a  big  change  in  a  man.  What  was  the  color 
of  this  feller's  eyes  and  hair  ?  " 

Bream  gave  him  the  description,  gathered 
from  his  recollection  of  Roger  as  he  had  seen 
him  in  the  office  of  the  Placer  Hotel. 

"  'Bout  the  same,"  admitted  Anderson,  still 
studying  the  picture.  "  But  I  could  n't  tell, 
'count  of  the  beard.  But  you  can't  git  up  there 
to  see  him  now  !  " 

He  pushed  the  photograph  across  the  table 
to  Bream  as  if  that  settled  it. 

"  But  I  am  going  up  there ! "  Bream  de 
clared  with  resolution.  "  This  is  a  very  im 
portant  matter.  I  Ve  undertaken  to  find  out 
if  this  man  is  the  one  I  'm  looking  for.  I 
mean  no  harm  to  him,  none  whatever;  and 
you  '11  be  doing  him  a  service  as  well  as  my 
self  by  assisting  me  in  the  matter  if  you  can. 
You  're  going  back  to  Feather  Bow,  I  sup 
pose  ?  I  'm  told  that  you  came  down  for  the 
mail." 

192 


The  Man  at  Feather  Bow 

c<  See  here,"  said  Anderson,  "  I  '11  take 
this  picture  up  to  camp,  and  if  our  man  up 
there  is  the  feller  you  want  I  '11  send  word 
to  you.  I  'm  lookin'  for  a  storm  before  I  git 
through,  and  if  it  strikes,  you  '11  be  a  mighty 
sight  better  off  in  the  town  than  up  on  the 
mountain." 

"  I  'm  going  with  you,"  Bream  declared  with 
dogged  persistence.  "  This  thing  is  so  im 
portant  that  it  must  be  settled  without  delay. 
I  came  to  Silverton  for  the  purpose  of  going 
on  to  Feather  Bow  to  see  this  man,  and  now 
that  I  'm  here  I  shall  make  the  trip.  I  'd  like 
to  go  with  you,  for  the  sake  of  company,  and 
help,  if  it  should  be  needed ;  but  whether  I  go 
with  you  or  go  alone,  I  'm  going  just  the  same. 
I  'm  used  to  mountain  climbing  and  to  cold 
weather,  and  I  can  make  it  through,  if  any  man 


can." 


Anderson  shifted  his  legs  on  the  table,  looked 
steadily  at  Bream,  then  thrust  his  hand  into 
his  overcoat  pocket  and  took  out  a  plug  of 
black  tobacco,  from  which  he  bit  a  big  chew. 

"  Might's  well  try  the  riffle  with  me,  then," 
he  said  reflectively.  "  The  boys  up  there  won't 
stand  no  foolishness,  though  !  I  'm  goin'  to 
Feather  Bow  'fore  the  storm  strikes,  if  I  kin, 
and  if  you  want  to  resk  it  with  me,  why,  I 
'3  193 


Barbara 

reckon  't  ain't  my  call  to  say  that  you  shan't. 
But  you'll  find  it  tough  goin',  and  if  that  storm 
should  hit  us  we'd  freeze  like  pa'tridges.  Got 
any  snowshoes  ? " 

"I'll  get  a  pair,"  said  Bream,  "and  what 
ever  else  is  necessary.  I  '11  look  up  some 
thing  to  eat  first,  and  I  think  I  'd  better  pack 
some  grub,  for  use  in  case  we  should  need  it. 
We  can  make  it  up  to  Feather  Bow  before 
dark,  I  suppose,  if  we  start  early.  When  will 
you  be  ready  ?  " 

"Jist  gittin'  ready;  dropped  in  hyer  for 
something  warm  first.  I  '11  leave  the  post 
office  inside  of  an  hour." 

When  Tim  Anderson,  mail  bag  on  shoulder, 
skis  on  his  feet  and  snow  goggles  over  his  eyes, 
left  the  Silverton  post  office,  Gilbert  Bream 
similarly  accoutred,  except  that  the  bag  on  his 
back  contained  eatables,  was  at  his  side.  The 
sunshine  on  the  glittering  snow-fields  was  like 
fire,  and  would  soon  have  produced  snow-blind 
ness  but  for  the  goggles. 

"  'T  ain't  to  say  a  trail,"  commented  An 
derson,  as  they  left  the  town  and  the  valley 
behind  them  and  began  to  climb  the  moun 
tain,  "  and  this  sun  will  make  the  top  of  the 
snow  slushy.  Mebbe  it  '11  keep  back  the 
storm,  though." 

194 


The  Man  at  Feather  Bow 

The  purplish  line  pointed  out  by  the  land 
lord  had  not  grown  in  size.  It  still  hung  over 
the  crest  of  the  mountain,  a  threatening  portent, 
that  was  all.  The  storm  it  was  supposed  to 
herald  might  not  come  for  days,  or  it  might 
fling  itself  down  the  white  slopes  like  a  mad 
beast  within  the  hour.  The  promise  for  the 
afternoon  was  good,  however,  and  Bream  was 
hopeful  of  reaching  the  camp  before  night. 
He  wanted  to  see  that  man  who  might  be 
Roger  Timberly  or  might  be  some  one  else ; 
and  this  burning  desire  gave  such  strength  and 
energy  to  his  limbs  that  Anderson,  hardy  and 
used  to  such  work  as  he  was,  found  this  stranger 
able  to  outdo  him  at  his  best  pace. 

Gilbert  Bream  was  sufficiently  acquainted 
with  Barbara's  character  to  make  him  dread 
the  result  if  he  should  discover  that  Roger 
Timberly  was  living  in  Feather  Bow,  under 
whatever  name.  Bream  had  come  to  know 
that  her  loyalty  to  her  husband  was  of  a  kind 
that  dies  hard  and  with  fierce  fighting.  Nothing 
but  the  most  convincing  proofs  of  Roger's 
utter  baseness  would  serve  to  drive  her  from 
him,  and  Bream  was  not  sure  that  even  that 
would.  He  had  much  to  think  about,  there 
fore,  as  he  tramped  on  over  the  snow  at  the 
side  of  the  Feather  Bow  mail-carrier.  The 
'95 


Barbara 

work  was  particularly  hard  on  Bream,  who  had 
not  put  his  foot  in  a  ski  strap  for  many  months, 
but  his  anxiety  to  know  the  truth  made  him 
scorn  the  toil. 

"  There  air  fellers  who  says  't  that  is  hand 
some,"  remarked  Anderson,  seating  himself  on 
a  snow-bank  for  a  bit  of  rest  when  they  had 
trudged  on  until  near  mid-afternoon.  He 
dropped  the  mail  bag  from  his  back  and 
flirted  his  mittened  hand  in  a  semicircular 
sweep. 

Around  them  were  the  high-piled  moun 
tains,  pine-set  and  snow-sifted;  and,  drifting 
upward  in  the  clear,  cold  air,  columns  of  smoke 
showed  here  and  there  the  location  of  mining 
camps.  Silverton  lay  at  their  feet,  so  clearly 
revealed  and  seemingly  so  near  that  one  might 
have  thought  it  possible  to  toss  a  stone  into 
the  midst  of  it. 

"  We  '11  get  through  without  a  storm," 
said  Bream.  "  That  blue  line  has  drawn 
back  into  the  north.  I  suppose  this  fellow 
with  the  wintry  name  will  be  found  right  in 
the  camp  ?  " 

"  Yep  ;  right  there  in  the  midst  of  good 
friends.  I  heerd  once  that  he  'd  said  his  name 
was  Timberlake,  or  somethin'  of  that  sort,  but 
he  never  was  a  feller  to  ask  questions  of. 

196 


The  Man  at  Feather  Bow 

Seein'  't  you  're  goin'  through,  I  don't  mind 
sayin'  that  I  think  he  's  your  man.  Would  n't 
be  the  first  feller  that 's  run  away  from  a 
woman!  Mebbe  she  made  it  too  hot  for  him. 
I  Ve  knowed  the  like.  Some  women  air 
hell." 

Then  he  tossed  the  mail  bag  again  to  his 
shoulders,  thrust  his  staff  into  the  now  crisping 
snow,  and  began  to  toil  on  again,  with  Bream 
at  his  side. 

On  the  summit  of  a  high  divide,  from  which 
Silverton  could  not  be  seen,  where  the  sinking 
sun  changed  the  trackless  snow-fields  to  fiery 
crimson,  to  rose  tints  and  purple,  with  the 
high  peaks,  like  white-robed  vestals,  dazzlingly 
crowned  in  silver  and  gold,  and  the  tall,  shin 
ing,  minaretted  spires  fretting  the  gorgeous 
dome  of  the  sky,  Gilbert  Bream  came  in  sight 
of  Feather  Bow.  He  felt  a  strange  thrill  as 
he  looked  at  it  —  an  insignificant  mining  camp, 
a  blot  and  blur  in  the  heart  of  those  leagues 
of  silence  and  grandeur.  The  sun,  descending 
behind  it,  seemed  to  lay  down  for  his  feet  a 
pathway  of  cloth  of  gold.  Did  that  pathway 
lead  to  the  destruction  of  his  hopes  ? 

"  Storm  petered  out !  "  said  Anderson,  break 
ing  the  silence.  "  When  we  left  town,  though, 
I  would  n't  'a'  bet  doughnuts  to  dollars  that 
197 


Barbara 

it    would  n't    git    us.       But    we  're    all    right 


now." 


Bream  scarcely  heard  him.  He  was  think 
ing  of  this  man  who  possibly  was  Roger  Tim- 
berly.  Then  they  set  their  skis  in  the  shining 
pathway  and  labored  on  toward  the  camp. 
When  still  some  distance  away  they  were  seen, 
and  a  number  of  men  swarmed  out  of  the 
tiny  houses.  Some  of  these  men  hurried  toward 
them. 

"  Is  my  man  with  them  ?  "  Bream  asked. 
He  could  not  see  well  because  of  the  flare  of 
the  red  sunlight. 

The  answer  was  a  negative. 

"  He  '11  be  pilin'  out  purty  soon,  though, 
'less  he  's  down  in  the  mine.  They  're  gin'erly 
hungrier  fer  their  mail  when  I  git  back  than 
they  air  fer  their  supper." 

Bream  felt  almost  relieved.  He  feared  the 
revelation  that  might  come  when  he  stood  face 
to  face  with  the  man  he  had  journeyed  so  far 
to  see.  Yet  he  was  anxious  for  that  revelation. 
The  suspense  was  terrible.  The  sooner  it  was 
ended  the  better,  he  thought,  not  able  to  resist 
the  hope  that  it  would  end  as  he  wished. 

"  Am  I  hoping  that  Roger  Timberly  is 
dead  ? "  he  asked  himself  in  self-accusation. 
"  No,  I  won't  let  myself  hope  that ;  only  I 

198 


The  Man  at  Feather  Bow 

shall  feel  relieved  when  the  question  is  settled 
one  way  or  the  other." 

He  had  forgotten  the  fatigue  of  the  tiresome 
journey,  and  skied  with  the  eagerness  of  a 
schoolboy  down  the  slope  that  now  dipped 
toward  the  camp.  The  sun,  dropping  behind 
the  far  peaks,  mellowed  the  strong  lights  on 
the  encircling  slopes,  washing  them  out  to 
browns  and  drabs  and  pearl  grays,  except  where 
the  high  spires  still  shone  ruddy  and  flame- 
colored. 

More  men  came  out  of  the  tiny  houses, 
and  Bream  repeated  his  question.  The  fore 
most  men,  mounted  on  skis,  were  approaching 
rapidly. 

"  In  the  mine,  I  reckon/'  said  Anderson  in 
response,  "  er  thinks  't  there  ain't  any  letter 
fer  him  nohow.  I  don't  remember  that  he 
ever  got  a  letter  since  he  's  been  in  the  camp, 
come  to  think  of  it.  A  feller  ain't  likely  to 
take  any  excitin'  interest  in  a  lottery  when  he's 
dead  shore  from  the  start  that  it  ain't  got  no 
prizes  fer  him.  He  'd  have  his  ears  up  like  a 
sage  rabbit,  though,  I  reckon,  if  he  knowed  you 
was  comin'  fer  him." 

A  little  later  they  met  the  foremost  men, 
who  stared  at  Bream  and  began  to  inquire 
about  the  mail. 

199 


Barbara 

"  Mr.  Bream,  from  Denver,  up  hyer  on  a 
little  bizness,"  said  Anderson,  characteristically 
and  with  an  excess  of  caution,  as  he  intro 
duced  Bream  comprehensively  to  the  motley 
mob.  cc  He  'lowed  he  could  make  it  with  me, 
and  I  was  n't  'bjectin'  to  company,  ye  see. 
Geewhiz  !  this  tarnal  mail  bag  weighs  about  a 
ton ;  I  '11  be  as  glad  as  if  I  'd  struck  a  gold 
nugget  when  I  kin  hand  it  over  to  the  post 
master." 

"  Is  there  anything  for  me  ?  "  asked  a  quiet, 
little  man  with  an  anxious  face,  plucking  at 
Anderson's  sleeve.  "  My  oldest  girl,  down  in 
Durango,  was  desprit  sick  last  time  I  heerd, 
ye  know." 

"Yes,  there's  a  letter  fer  you,  Bald'in.  I 
looked  over  the  pile  in  the  post  office  at  Sil- 
verton,  and  seen  one  with  your  name  on  it. 
If  you  'd  tell  your  folks  to  write  on  postal 
cards  I  could  git  the  news  to  ye  quicker;  now 
you  '11  have  to  wait  till  the  postmaster  sifts 
through  the  mail.  But  he  '11  be  quick  about 
it." 

Baldwin  dropped  back,  anxious  and  troubled. 
That  letter,  which  had  been  in  the  Silverton 
post  office  nearly  a  month,  might  convey  the 
news  of  his  daughter's  restoration  to  health 
or  it  might  tell  of  her  death  while  he  had  been 
?  op 


The  Man  at  Feather  Bow 

imprisoned  in  the  snow-bound  camp  of  Feather 
Bow. 

Other  men  pushed  up  with  similar  questions; 
and  Anderson,  who  seemed  to  know  the  con 
tents  of  the  mail  bag  by  heart,  was  able  in 
nearly  every  instance  to  tell  a  man  whether 
there  was  any  mail  for  him  or  not. 

"  Good  thing  the  storm  held  off,"  he  com 
mented,  as  he  moved  on  surrounded  by  this 
anxious  bodyguard.  "  If  it  'd  broke  while  I 
was  in  Silverton,  I  could  n't  'a*  got  in  fer  a 
week,  and  if  it  'd  smashed  into  us  on  the  way 
up  hyer  likely  you  'd  got  your  letters  when 
you  dug  us  out  of  the  snow  in  the  spring." 

Thus  he  talked  as  he  moved  toward  the 
camp  and  the  post  office,  cheerful  withal,  mak 
ing  light  of  the  peril  that  lay  in  wait  for  him 
like  a  crouching  lion  on  the  trackless  slopes 
every  time  he  ventured  down  to  Silverton  for 
the  scanty  mail  for  Feather  Bow.  He  was  a 
hero  in  his  way,  and  a  philosopher,  and  was 
quite  unaware  that  he  was  either. 

"  Point  him  out  to  me  if  he  comes  into  the 
post  office,"  Bream  contrived  to  whisper  as  he 
passed  into  the  little  building  with  Anderson. 
"  If  he  has  changed  much  I  may  not  be  able 
to  recognize  him,  you  see." 

"  Oh,  you  '11  know  him  !  "  said  Anderson  ; 

201 


Barbara 

then  marched  forward  and  slammed  the  mail 
bag  on  the  floor. 

The  postmaster  was  waiting  for  it,  pounced 
on  it,  drew  it  behind  the  railing  where  there 
was  a  desk  with  some  lettered  pigeon  holes,  and 
with  quick  nervous  movements  unlocked  it 
and  poured  out  the  contents.  A  half-dozen 
men  who  had  been  previously  sworn  in  as 
assistants  grabbed  the  letters  and  began  to  call 
off  the  names. 

"This  is  fer  Piute  Pete,"  was  shouted,  an 
assistant  holding  up  a  letter  that  was  addressed 
in  a  dainty  feminine  hand  to  "  Mr.  Peter 
Lindgrin." 

"  And  here 's  one  fer  Peg-leg  Bill !  " 

cc  Two ;  no,  three,  for  Cap'n  Sargent,"  an 
other  called. 

"  Ah,  there,  Joey  !  you  Ve  got  a  letter  from 
yer  sister  down  in  Santy  Fe  ;  and  here  's  a  billy 
doo  for  Sam  Jackson." 

Jackson  came  forward  and  took  his  letter 
with  flushing  face  ;  it  was  from  his  sweetheart, 
and  he  had  not  heard  from  her  for  a  whole 
month. 

Ct  A  letter  and  a  paper  for  Tom  Jinkins  — 
you  're  gittin'  literary,  Jinkins  !  " 

"  There  ought  to  have  been  a  magazine," 
said  Jenkins,  as  he  took  his  mail. 

202 


The  Man  at  Feather  Bow 

"  I  left  it  down  to  town,"  said  the  mail  car 
rier.  "  There  was  a  lot  of  magazines  down 
there  and  I  could  n't  pack  'em ;  the  trail  was 
bad  and  I  was  afraid  of  the  storm.  Git  'em 
fer  ye  the  next  time  I  go,  though." 

In  the  midst  of  this  noise  and  hurly-burly 
Gilbert  Bream  stood  in  a  corner  to  be  out  of 
the  way  of  the  struggling  men,  and  scanned 
the  door  closely.  Suddenly  he  felt  some  one 
nudge  him  in  the  side  and  turned  to  find  An 
derson  at  his  elbow. 

"  He  's  comin',"  said  Anderson,  not  finding 
it  necessary  in  the  midst  of  that  uproar  to  lower 
his  voice.  "  I  Ve  been  listening  and  I  heerd 
him  cough  outside ;  he  's  kind  o'  thin  chested, 
and  when  he  comes  up  out  o'  the  mine  the  cold 
air  sort  of  ketches  his  wind  sometimes.  He  '11 
come  in,  I  reckon ;  so  keep  yer  eye  on  the 
door." 

Bream  felt  the  hot  blood  mounting  to  his 
face,  and  his  limbs  trembled ;  but  he  braced 
himself  with  an  effort,  and,  putting  his  hand 
on  the  wall,  waited  for  the  appearance  of — 
whom  ? 

Then  a  man  came  in  —  a  thin-chested  man, 
with  sunken,  gray  eyes,  a  face  sallow  but  intel 
ligent,  and  dressed  in  ordinary  miner's  garb. 
Bream  caught  his  breath  and  reeled,  the  blood 
203 


Barbara 

bounding  in  his  veins.  The  hair,  the  eyes,  the 
face,  the  general  appearance,  were  the  same ; 
but —  the  man  was  not  Roger  Timberly  ! 

The  resemblance  was  striking,  almost  start 
ling  in  some  respects ;  however,  Bream  had 
seen  Roger,  he  had  studied  the  photograph  to 
assist  his  memory,  he  was  able  to  recall  Roger's 
looks  with  almost  photographic  accuracy ;  and 
when  his  glance  fell  on  this  man  he  saw  that 
the  man  was  a  total  stranger.  Until  that  su 
preme  moment  Bream  had  not  really  known 
how  great  was  his  fear  that  the  man  at  Feather 
Bow  whom  he  had  come  to  seek  was  Timberly. 
Now,  when  he  discovered  how  far  from  the 
truth  was  the  suggestion,  the  feeling  that  rose 
from  the  depths  of  his  soul  was  one  of  exulta 
tion.  He  could  not  repress  it,  though  he  hated 
himself  for  it. 

"  Your  man  ?  "  asked  the  mail  carrier,  when 
Bream  did  not  speak. 

"  No  ! "  said  Bream,  with  a  sense  of  relief. 
"  I  never  saw  him  before." 

"  That 's  good.  He  looks  like  the  picture, 
though,  'cept  for  the  beard;  and  he  tallies  to 
your  description.  I  was  dead  shore  he  was 
your  man." 

The  voice  of  the  mail  carrier  expressed  also 
a  sense  of  relief.  He  had  not  fully  accepted 
204 


The  Man  at  Feather  Bow 

Bream's  story  as  to  the  nature  of  his  errand, 
but  had  held  a  lingering  suspicion  that  some 
thing  of  possible  peril  to  this  man  was  hid  back 
of  it. 

"  I  '11  interduce  him  to  ye  d'reckly,"  An 
derson  volunteered.  "  Then  ye  kin  talk  with 
him.  But  if  he  ain't  the  man,  I  reckon  't  he 
don't  know  any  more  about  him  than  I  do." 


205 


CHAPTER   XV 
IN   THE   GRIP   OF   THE   BLIZZARD 

THERE  was  a  slight  snowfall  that  night, 
and  further  threat  of  a  severe  storm  ;  and 
these  conditions  continuing,  Gilbert  Bream  was 
detained  at  Feather  Bow  for  three  days,  and  it 
might  have  been  better  for  him  if  he  had  been 
willing  to  remain  there  longer.  His  mind  was 
relieved  of  the  intense  strain  concerning  the 
mysterious  man  who  had  once  called  himself 
Timberlake  and  was  now  known  as  Iselin 
Snow  ;  but  this  did  not  lessen  his  desire  to 
leave  the  camp.  It  increased  it,  if  anything. 
The  search  for  Roger  Timberly  had  resulted 
in  total  failure  up  to  that  time,  and  Bream  be 
lieved  that  no  better  results  awaited  further 
search.  There  was  no  reason,  therefore,  why 
he  should  not  return  to  San  Diego. 

Cooped  thus  in  the  camp,  Bream  had  abun 
dant  time  for  thought,  and  the  result  was  a  cer 
tainty  of  belief  that  Roger  was  dead.  He  had 
not  only  sought  for  Roger,  but  had  sought  as 
well  for  Roger's  companion,  the  man  who  had 
been  with  him  in  the  office  of  the  Placer  Hotel, 
206 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Blizzard 

and  who  was  presumed  to  have  accompanied  him 
when  he  left  Cripple  Creek.  As  far  as  could 
be  ascertained,  both  had  vanished  from  the  face 
of  the  earth  ;  and  when  Bream  reflected  on  the 
unerring  skill  with  which  officers  of  the  law 
track  fugitives  to  the  remotest  corners  of  the 
world,  and  how  he  and  all  his  assistants  had 
failed  so  signally  in  their  efforts  to  discover  or 
trace  Roger  and  his  companion,  he  was  driven 
irresistibly  to  the  conclusion  that  Roger  was 
dead. 

During  those  three  days  in  Feather  Bow 
Bream  tried  to  be  stoically  philosophical,  and 
sought  to  interest  himself  in  the  mining  opera 
tions  that  engrossed  the  time  and  attention  of 
the  men  of  the  camp.  In  spite  of  it  all  he 
chafed  like  a  hooded  falcon.  Neither  the 
whirring,  steam-driven  windlass  that  dropped 
him  into  the  heart  of  the  mountain,  the  silver 
that  was  being  unearthed,  nor  the  contempla 
tion  of  anything  else  in  Feather  Bow,  could 
give  him  a  moment  of  contentment. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  Bream 
announced  his  intention  of  returning  to  Silver- 
ton.  It  was  a  foolhardy  determination,  the 
men  of  Feather  Bow  insisted;  for,  though  the 
day  opened  in  blinding  brightness,  suggestive 
banks  of  thin  vapor  looped  themselves  in  ser- 
207 


Barbara 

pentine  folds  round  the  brows  of  the  moun 
tains,  and  the  blue  line  beyond  the  northern 
range  was  advanced  a  trifle.  Weather-wise 
miners,  among  them  Tim  Anderson,  the  mail 
carrier,  told  Bream  that  a  storm  was  brewing, 
and  that  it  was  likely  to  break  at  any  time. 
Since  the  snowfall  there  was  not  the  hint  of  a 
trail  to  guide  him  over  and  down  the  white 
wastes,  and  if  the  storm  should  strike  or  a 
snow-slip  occur  his  chances  of  life  would  not 
be  worth  counting.  But  Bream  was  not  de 
terred.  For  three  days  the  miners  had  talked 
in  this  manner,  causing  him  the  loss  of  pre 
cious  time.  However,  he  did  not  himself  like 
the  portents,  and  delayed  his  departure  until 
noon. 

Then,  as  the  predicted  storm  had  not  ap 
peared,  he  turned  his  back  on  Feather  Bow, 
and  with  his  skis  on  his  feet  and  a  bundle  of 
food  on  his  back,  he  set  off  across  the  snow 
toward  the  divide,  where  the  descent  of  the 
mountains  began.  He  was  attired  for  severe 
weather,  and  if  the  storm  continued  to  hang 
off  he  knew  that  he  could  make  the  downward 
journey  to  Silverton  without  trouble.  It  light 
ened  his  heart  to  be  in  motion,  and  the  feeling 
of  restless  impatience,  that  had  driven  him  fairly 
frantic  while  in  Feather  Bow,  vanished. 
208 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Blizzard 

Of  course  his  thoughts  were  of  Barbara ;  and 
he  almost  laughed  at  the  notion  that  any  one 
should  have  fancied  for  a  moment  that  the 
rough  miner  of  Feather  Bow  could  be  Roger 
Timberly.  Roger  was  dead ;  he  knew  that, 
now.  He  no  longer  consented  to  the  thought 
which  had  sometimes  been  his,  that  Roger,  in 
leaving  Barbara  on  their  lonely  claim  in  Kan 
sas,  had  deliberately  deserted  her.  She  was 
so  charming  a  woman  —  and  Bream  could  not 
doubt  she  had  been  equally  charming  as  a  wife 
—  that  he  found  it  impossible  to  believe  that 
any  man  could  have  abandoned  her  in  so  cow 
ardly  a  manner. 

After  Bream  crossed  the  divide  the  sky  be 
came  gradually  overcast.  Then  a  fierce  wind 
bore  down  from  the  northwest,  a  wind  that 
picked  up  the  sand-like  particles  of  frozen 
snow  and  threshed  them  noisily  against  and 
over  the  scrubby  pinons,  which  lifted  their 
gnarled  arms  in  the  precipitous  places  and 
fought  lustily  with  the  advancing  gale.  This 
snow,  which  in  its  flintiness  resembled  powdered 
glass,  stung  and  lacerated  Bream  whenever  by 
reason  of  the  character  of  the  ground  he  was 
forced  to  face  it.  But  he  was  descending  at 
a  promising  pace  and  hoped  the  storm  would 
not  be  severe. 

M  209 


Barbara 

Due  caution  would  have  urged  Bream  to 
attempt  to  return  at  this  time,  even  in  the 
teeth  of  the  wind  and  the  flying  snow ;  but 
the  thought  of  being  cooped  for  a  week  or 
more,  perhaps  for  a  month,  in  so  forlorn  a 
place  as  Feather  Bow,  drove  him  on  down  the 
mountain.  There  were  times  when  he  was 
forced  to  pick  his  way  with  much  care  and  to 
make  wide  detours,  all  of  which  caused  loss 
of  valuable  time  and  tried  his  patience.  He 
could  not  long  doubt,  however,  that  the  storm 
was  increasing  in  severity.  The  fierce  north 
west  wind  brought  with  it  a  deadly  drop  in  the 
temperature.  Even  through  his  thick  fur  coat 
and  in  spite  of  his  exertions  he  felt  the  chill 
striking  to  his  bones. 

Stopping  in  the  lee  of  a  rocky  eminence  he 
cleared  the  rime  from  his  face  and  eyes  and 
tried  to  look  through  the  flying  snow.  He 
had  heard  a  sound  that  was  unpleasantly  sug 
gestive.  It  was  a  dull  detonation,  smothered 
and  apparently  far  away ;  but  he  knew  the 
meaning  of  it.  Somewhere  out  in  that  white 
smother  there  had  been  a  snow-slide.  As  he 
tried  vainly  to  pierce  the  snow  he  saw  with  the 
inward  eye  and  by  the  aid  of  memory  the  white 
mountain  crest  above  him,  over  which,  not  so 
very  long  before,  he  had  seen  the  snow  blowing 

2IO 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Blizzard 

in  a  shining  veil.  He  had  not  looked  on  that 
sight  without  something  of  foreboding.  From 
the  high  plateaus  which  lay  back  of  that  moun 
tain  wall  the  wind  was  eating  away  the  snow, 
whirling  it  forward  and  pouring  it  over  the 
rim  of  the  mountain  as  the  veil  of  a  waterfall 
is  poured  over  the  rim  of  a  precipice.  Reason 
told  him  that  the  sifting  cascade  had  increased 
rather  than  diminished  since  he  looked  on  it. 
In  all  probability  it  was  now  a  small  Niagara 
of  wind-torn  ice  dust  instead  of  the  shining 
veil-like  cascade  he  had  beheld.  What  the 
effect  of  its  superimposed  weight  on  the  vast 
overladen  snow-fields  might  be,  the  dull  boom 
ing  roar  had  told  him. 

"  I  don't  like  that,"  he  thought,  as  he  lis 
tened  for  a  possible  repetition  of  the  detonat 
ing  crash.  "  It  would  n't  be  pleasant  to  be 
caught  in  a  snow-slide." 

He  was  unwilling  to  admit  that  it  would 
mean  death  to  him  in  all  probability,  though 
he  knew  it  well.  Gilbert  Bream  was  no 
coward.  Inevitable  death,  under  ordinary  cir 
cumstances,  he  could  have  faced  as  bravely  as 
any  man  ;  but  now,  with  those  thoughts  of 
Barbara  and  of  the  future,  he  hesitated  to 
word  the  suggestion  even  in  his  mind. 

"  It 's  a  good  thing  that  the  way  lies  down- 

211 


Barbara 

ward,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  moved  out  of 
his  shelter.  "  I  should  be  bewildered  and 
lost,  even  with  the  wind  at  my  back,  if  I  were 
on  a  level ;  but  I  can't  make  much  of  a  mis 
take  in  direction  so  long  as  I  keep  going  down 
hill.  A  trail  would  be  of  no  use  now,  even 
if  there  were  one.  But  Silverton  lies  at 
the  foot  of  this  mountain,  and  surely  I  can't 


miss  it." 


Once  beyond  the  protection  of  the  rocky 
eminence,  with  the  snow-filled  wind  roaring 
madly  about  him  and  threatening  to  tear  him 
from  his  footing,  he  thrust  his  stout  alpen 
stock  into  the  snow,  guided  himself  as  care 
fully  as  possible  round  such  obstructions  as 
he  could  see ;  then,  realizing  that  the  storm 
was  growing  steadily  worse  and  that  a  genuine 
blizzard  was  upon  him,  he  shot  downward 
from  point  to  point  with  reckless  daring,  tak 
ing  perilous  chasms  with  his  skis  much  as 
the  trained  hunter  takes  dangerous  ditches  and 
walls.  And  ever  the  gale  smote  him  with 
fiercer  mien. 

In  spite  of  Bream's  exertions  he  began  to 
feel  soon  the  deadly  effect  of  the  intense  cold. 
The  wind  grew  wilder  and  wilder,  and  tore  at 
him  like  a  savage  and  relentless  beast.  The 
flying  snow-dust  filled  his  face  and  his  eyes, 


212 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Blizzard 

and  stung  with  its  million  needles  of  ice. 
Nevertheless,  he  sturdily  kept  the  wind  on  his 
shoulder  and  his  skis  pointed  downward,  know 
ing  that  there  was  no  safety  for  him  on  the 
mountain,  and  that  if  he  found  shelter  it  must 
be  somewhere  in  the  valley  below.  Silverton 
he  had  not  sighted  since  leaving  Feather  Bow, 
and  soon  even  the  rocks  and  the  trees  that 
sped  past  him  were  blotted  from  his  sight. 

Yet  he  did  not  for  a  moment  lose  hope. 
He  had  been  in  storms  and  blizzards  before, 
though  never  in  one  so  wild  as  this.  He 
knew  his  peril  well,  but  he  knew  likewise  his 
strength  and  his  unbending  determination. 
There  was  stern  stuff  in  Gilbert  Bream,  and 
an  iron-like  courage  with  which  he  was  not 
often  credited  even  by  those  who  knew  him 
best. 

With  the  storm  growing  worse  and  the  cold 
more  intense,  he  finally  thrust  a  couple  of 
biscuits  into  his  pockets  and  cast  away  the  bag 
of  food.  Knowing  that  no  greater  danger 
could  await  him  than  that  which  now  closed  so 
icily  about  him,  he  set  his  alpenstock  to  act  as 
a  rudder  and  slipped  blindly  downward. 

"  There  is  no  help  for  it,"  he  assured  him 
self,  trying  to  see  through  the  snow-scud  that 
filled  his  face  and  made  his  breathing  difficult. 
213 


Barbara 

"  I  shall  die  here.  I  seem  to  have  been  de 
scending  for  hours.  Silverton  can't  be  far 
away  now." 

The  cold  seemed  to  be  congealing  the  blood 
in  his  veins  and  closing  about  his  heart.  His 
limbs  and  arms  were  losing  the  power  of  sen 
sation.  His  feet  were  leaden  and  heavy  and  his 
ringers  frozen  and  stiff.  Thick  boots,  thick 
mittens,  and  fur  coat  had  lost  their  ability  to 
keep  him  warm.  He  knew  that  he  was  freez 
ing,  and  that  if  he  did  not  find  shelter  and 
protection  soon  he  would  tumble  forward  into 
some  deep  drift  and  rise  no  more. 

A  minute,  two  minutes,  five  minutes,  went 
by  in  this  mad  race.  He  crouched  low  and 
peered  into  the  wall  of  snow,  but  saw  nothing. 
He  crossed  gorges  and  rifts  in  the  mountain, 
but  they  were  now  snow-filled,  and  he  knew  it 
not.  More  than  once  he  scraped  against  trees 
and  boulders.  He  knew  only  that  every 
moment  was  filled  with  deadly  peril ;  but  he 
could  not  stop,  for  the  peril  from  which  he  was 
speeding  was  as  great  as  anything  that  could 
lie  in  his  path.  The  sensation  was  like  that 
of  flying,  and  as  he  swept  on,  the  very  thrill  of 
it  seemed  to  warm  the  blood  that  so  short  a 
time  before  had  been  congealing. 

"  I  ought  to  bring  up  somewhere  pretty 
214 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Blizzard 

soon,  at  this  rate  !  "  was  his  thought ;  "  and 
I  'm  certainly  growing  warmer." 

Then  he  was  startled'  by  the  conviction  that 
this  apparent  warmth  was  but  an  indication 
that  he  was  freezing  —  that  it  meant  the  cessa 
tion  of  sensation  and  the  benumbing  of  his 
faculties. 

"  I  can  make  it,  though  !  "  he  assured  him 
self.  "  Silverton  can't  be  very  far  away  now/' 

The  thought  had  hardly  crossed  his  mind 
when  he  crashed  heavily  into  some  object  he 
had  been  unable  to  see,  and  was  hurled  into 
a  drift,  bleeding  and  almost  senseless.  He 
roused  himself  with  an  effort,  to  find  that  one 
of  his  skis  was  gone  and  that  the  other  had 
been  snapped  in  two  and  rendered  useless. 
He  made  the  discovery  with  a  sense  of  de 
spair,  feeling  that  without  his  skis  he  was  lost. 
However,  he  struggled  to  his  feet,  standing 
hip  deep  in  the  drift,  and  tried  to  go  on. 

As  he  moved  forward  his  mittened  hands 
struck  against  a  round  object  directly  in  front 
of  him.  He  could  hardly  tell  what  it  was. 
At  first  he  thought  it  must  be  the  prostrate 
trunk  of  a  tree  and  tried  to  wallow  round  it ; 
then  he  discovered  that  there  were  similar 
round  objects  above  and  below  the  one  he  had 
touched.  He  passed  his  hands  over  them. 
2I5 


Barbara 

His  chilled  heart  leaped  when  he  comprehended 
the  nature  of  the  discovery  thus  made.  He 
had  struck  against  a  wall  of  logs  —  perhaps 
against  the  side  of  a  house,  and  that  house 
might  be  inhabited  !  It  might  mean  warmth, 
fire,  and  food  —  life  itself! 

Reeling  in  the  snow,  Bream  began  to  shout 
as  loud  as  he  could.  There  was  no  answer. 
He  hammered  against  the  hard  logs  with  his 
stiff  hands.  He  would  have  battered  the  walls 
with  his  fists,  but  could  not  bend  his  fingers ; 
neither  could  he  lift  his  feet  out  of  the  snow 
and  kick  against  the  wall.  Again  and  again  he 
shouted ;  then  began  to  crawl  along  the  wall, 
hoping  against  hope  that  he  could  find  a  door. 
The  hope  was  doomed  to  disappointment. 
There  was  no  house  before  him,  as  he  dis 
covered  when  he  had  crawled  to  the  end  of  the 
logs  ;  there  was  not  even  a  comfortable  shelter. 
The  logs  had  once  constituted  the  walls  of  a 
shed,  which  was  now  roofless  and  filled  with 
snow. 

The  thought  that  he  might  be  even  within 
the  very  borders  of  Silverton  caused  Bream  to 
lift  his  voice  once  more.  He  was  too  dulled 
to  reason  that  if  he  were  in  the  heart  of  Silver- 
ton  the  scream  of  the  gale  would  drown  his 
feeble  efforts.  When  he  found  that  no  house 
216 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Blizzard 

could  be  expected  to  open  hospitable  doors  to 
welcome  and  shelter  him,  he  tried  to  crawl  back 
up  the  slope  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind  in  search 
of  the  lost  ski,  dimly  hoping  that  if  he  could 
but  find  it  he  might  splice  the  one  that  was 
broken  and  so  proceed  down  the  mountain ; 
and  when  his  frozen  hands  did  not  find  it,  he 
slipped  down  the  slope  again,  felt  his  way  to  a 
position  behind  the  broken  wall,  and  sought 
to  save  himself  from  death  by  drawing  his  coat 
closer.  His  mind  was  becoming  clouded  with 
fancies,  but  only  at  intervals  did  he  realize 
this. 

"  It 's  been  terribly  cold,  but  it 's  warmer  in 
here,"  he  muttered  and  mumbled,  as  he  tried 
to  look  with  filming  eyes  through  the  swirl  of 
the  storm.  He  tried  to  rouse  himself,  and 
was  aware  that  he  felt  sleepy.  "  Perhaps  I  'm 
freezing,"  he  mumbled  again,  "for  I  Ve  heard 
that  people  seem  to  get  warmer  when  they  be 
gin  to  freeze ;  but  I  don't  think  I  'm  freezing 
yet.  I  'm  certainly  warmer  and  more  com 
fortable,  and  it's  the  shelter  of  this  wall. 
That  wind  was  awful !  It  don't  strike  so  hard 
here.  No  doubt  it 's  cosey  enough  in  San 
Diego.  A  regular  summer  land.  I  wonder 
what  Barbara  is  doing  !  Perhaps  she  's  stroll 
ing  along  Coronado  Beach.  I  should  like  to 
217 


Barbara 

be  with  her.  I  wonder  what  she  would  say  if 
I  should  die  here  !  " 

It  was  useless  to  stare  longer  through  the 
flying  snow,  and  he  dropped  his  head  on  his 
breast.  He  became  even  more  comfortable 
after  that,  and  fancied  that  he  was  in  the 
warmth  of  Mrs.  Lake's  drawing-room,  and 
that  Barbara  was  reading  Tennyson  to  him. 
He  seemed  to  see  her  face ;  there  was  a  love 
light  in  it,  and  that  love  light  was  for  him  ; 
and  he  fancied  that  he  heard  her  voice,  sweeter 
than  music.  He  saw  only  the  snow  blur  if  he 
saw  anything,  and  he  heard  only  the  mad 
scream  of  the  blizzard. 

After  a  time  there  came  to  Bream  a  feeling 
that  he  was  being  rescued  from  some  awful 
peril,  and  that  Barbara's  arms  were  about  his 
neck  and  that  her  tears  fell  on  his  face.  This 
part  of  the  dream  —  for  it  was  of  the  nature 
of  a  dream  —  was  so  pleasant  that  he  wished 
it  might  go  on  forever. 

A  sudden  waking  from  it  brought  to  him 
such  agony  that  he  screamed  aloud.  Mocking 
devils  seemed  now  to  be  dancing  about  him, 
devils  who  took  delight  in  freezing  him  with 
icicles  and  smothering  him  in  snow.  They 
pommelled  him,  too,  and  yelled  at  him  and 
took  excruciating  pleasure  in  rubbing  the  skin 
218 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Blizzard 

from  his  bleeding  limbs.  He  tried  to  shake 
them  off,  to  fight  them,  to  spit  his  contempt 
and  hate  upon  them  ;  but  as  he  struggled  they 
threw  him  down  again  and  again,  still  hammer 
ing  him  with  icicles,  deluging  him  with  snow, 
and  beating  him  until  the  torture  became  un 
bearable.  He  began  to  understand  but  slowly 
that  he  was  in  a  room,  and  that  the  demons 
were  two  honest-looking  young  fellows  who 
were  exerting  themselves  to  the  utmost  to  bring 
him  back  to  life. 

In  his  flying  descent  down  the  mountain 
Gilbert  Bream  had  struck  against  an  old  and 
broken  woodshed  at  the  corner  of  the  Dunbar 
cabin,  just  outside  of  the  borders  of  Silverton. 
There  he  was  found  in  a  freezing  condition  by 
Asa  Dunbar,  who,  with  a  rope  about  his  waist 
to  guide  him  back  to  the  house,  —  the  other 
end  of  the  rope  being  attached  to  the  door 
knob, — had  ventured  out  into  the  storm  to 
get  a  load  of  fuel  for  the  dying  fire.  In  feel 
ing  his  way  along  the  shed  to  the  snow-covered 
woodpile  Asa  had  stumbled  over  the  stiffening 
figure  of  Gilbert  Bream.  Recognizing  instantly 
the  serious  character  of  Bream's  condition  and 
being  unable  to  carry  him  alone,  he  had  returned 
to  the  house  for  help,  and  the  two  brothers  had 
dragged  Bream  in,  instead  of  the  load  of  wood 
219 


Barbara 

that  Asa  had  gone  to  fetch;  and  they  were  now 
using  every  means  which  their  knowledge  of 
such  cases  suggested  to  restore  him  and  save 
life  and  limb  from  the  terrible  effects  of  the 
cold. 

"  Oh!  oh!  don't !  "  Bream  begged.  "You  're 
killing  me.  I  can't  stand  it." 

"  We  've  got  to  do  a  little  killin*  to  make 
you  alive  again,"  said  Bob  Dunbar,  as  his 
hard  hands  seemed  to  scrape  the  skin  in  flakes 
from  Bream's  body.  "You  was  nighabout  a 
goner,  I  'm  tellin'  you.  If  Ase  had  n't  tumbled 
over  you  out  there  when  he  did  you  'd  shore 
took  your  supper  in  Kingdom  Come." 

"  Ase "  was  rubbing  Bream's  arms  and 
hands  with  snow. 

"  Don't !  don't !  "  screamed  the  tortured 
man,  as  the  life  current  began  to  circulate  in 
the  frosted  members. 

He  scarcely  knew  what  he  was  saying.  His 
mind  was  still  clouded,  and  though  he  knew 
now  that  he  was  in  the  hands  of  men  instead 
of  devils,  he  felt  that  he  wanted  them  to  let 
him  alone.  He  had  been  quite  warm  and 
comfortable,  and  it  seemed  fiendish  in  any  one 
to  treat  him  with  such  cruelty. 

But  the  Dunbar  boys  were  inexorable,  and 
continued  their  efforts  until  they  began  to  feel 
220 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Blizzard 

that  he  was  safe.  His  condition  was  so  serious, 
however,  that  they  framed  a  stretcher,  and  in 
a  lull  of  the  storm  bore  him  through  the  flying 
snow  into  the  town  that  he  might  have  the 
attention  of  a  competent  physician. 

Before  this  was  done  Bream  had  fallen  into 
a  restless  delirium,  in  which  he  raved  constantly 
of  the  devils  of  the  cold  and  called  on  Barbara 
to  save  him,  starting  up  from  the  bed  and  from 
the  stretcher  now  and  then  with  a  shriek. 

"  He  is  in  a  bad  way,"  said  the  doctor,  when 
he  had  made  an  examination.  "  His  mind  is 
affected ;  and  as  for  that  right  foot,  I  'm  afraid 
that  if  he  lives  it  will  have  to  come  off.  If  he 
has  any  folks  they  ought  to  be  sent  for." 

A  search  was  made  for  information,  and 
Mrs.  Lake's  latest  letter  to  Bream  was  found 
in  his  inner  breast  pocket ;  and  as  he  could 
give  no  account  of  himself  nor  make  his  wishes 
known,  the  physician  telegraphed  a  statement 
of  his  condition  to  the  address  in  San  Diego, 
making  special  mention  of  the  fact  that  the 
unfortunate  man  was  calling  constantly  for 
Barbara.  The  physician's  natural  supposition 
was  that  Barbara  was  Bream's  wife. 

Out  of  a  hell  of  painful  and  troubled  semi- 
consciousness  Gilbert  Bream  awoke  one  morn 
ing  to  find  Barbara  sitting  at  his  bedside.  He 

221 


Barbara 

could  hardly  be  sure  that  he  saw  aright.  Her 
presence  irradiated  the  place,  transforming  it 
from  an  abode  of  pain  into  a  paradise  of 
delight. 

"  Is  it  really  you  ?  "  he  asked,  in  affecting 
appeal ;  and  she,  rising  quickly,  came  and  bent 
over  him. 


222 


CHAPTER   XVI 

DEFEAT 

BREAM  was  puzzled  to  account  for  Bar 
bara's  presence  in  the  room.  He  had 
no  conception  of  how  long  a  time  had  elapsed 
since  he  had  been  brought  there,  and  he  did 
not  know  that  he  had  called  for  Barbara  through 
all  the  long  hours  of  his  delirium.  On  Bar 
bara's  face  was  an  unmistakable  flush  as  she 
stooped  above  him,  but  whether  of  pain  or 
pleasure  Bream  could  not  tell.  However,  her 
voice  was  gentle  and  tender,  and  her  eyes  ex 
pressed  kindly  sympathy.  He  even  thought 
there  was  a  trace  of  tears  in  them,  but  he  put 
this  aside  as  an  improbable  fancy. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  Mrs.  Lake?  "  she 
asked. 

It  was  a  sensible  disappointment  to  Gilbert 
Bream  to  know  that  Mrs.  Lake  was  there. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  answered,  almost  wearily, 

the  eager  light  dying  out  of  his  eyes.     "  You 

came   with    Mrs.    Lake?     I    must  have    been 

lying  here  longer  than  I  thought.      Let 's  see  ! 

223 


Barbara 

How  was  I  hurt  ?  Oh,  yes  !  I  got  caught  in 
the  blizzard  while  coming  down  the  mountain 
from  Feather  Bow." 

The  look  of  weariness  increased ;  and  Bar 
bara,  alarmed  by  it,  hastened  from  the  room, 
returning  presently  with  Mrs.  Lake,  who  threw 
herself  wildly  upon  Bream,  kissed  him,  and  then 
began  to  chafe  affectionately  the  frost-bitten 
fingers. 

"  We  have  been  so  alarmed  about  you,  Gil 
bert,"  she  said,  with  a  sisterly  devotion  that 
was  almost  motherly.  "  But  you  will  soon  be 
well  now,  the  doctor  says.  Only  you  must 
keep  very  quiet !  " 

"  I  suppose  he  wired  you  ?  "  Bream  inquired, 
his  gaze  wandering  toward  Barbara. 

Mrs.  Lake  answered: 

"  Yes ;  and  we  came  right  away.  But  you 
must  n't  talk,  you  know.  That  's  a  dear,  good 
fellow  ! " 

She  kissed  him  again,  on  the  week-old 
growth  of  dark  beard  that  disfigured  his  face, 
and  it  required  no  stretch  of  fancy  to  see  the 
tears  in  her  eyes  and  to  hear  them  in  her  shak 
ing  voice. 

"  I  don't  understand  it  all  yet,"  he  said. 
"How  did  I—" 

"  I  should  n't  try  to  talk,  Gilbert,  if  I  were 
224 


Defeat 

you,"  Mrs.  Lake  urged.  "  You  were  found 
in  a  freezing  condition  and  brought  here. 
That  is  enough  to  know  now,  is  n't  it  ?  When 
you  are  stronger  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  — 
all  that  we  know." 

Bream  tried  to  be  content  with  this.  He 
felt  very  tired,  and  he  still  had  unpleasant 
memories  of  the  demons  who  had  tormented 
him. 

"  Barbara  will  sit  by  you  awhile,  if  you  like," 
said  Mrs.  Lake,  noting  how  his  gaze  wandered 
constantly  to  the  face  of  the  one  woman  who 
had  become  all  the  world  to  him. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  feebly,  with  a  slight 
flush  of  the  bearded  cheeks.  "  Any  way  ! 
Perhaps  I  don't  need  any  one  now.  I  must 
be  much  better  than  I  have  been  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ever  so  much  better  !  You  '11  soon  be 
quite  well  now,  the  doctor  says.  But  you 
mustn't  talk,  and  you  must  not  worry  your 
self,  Gilbert." 

She  put  her  fingers  gently  across  his  lips ; 
then  seeing  the  look  of  resignation  and  sub 
mission  she  went  away,  leaving  Barbara  sitting 
by  the  bed. 

As  Bream's  faculties  grew  clearer  he  began 
to  wonder  dreamily  how  he  could  account  sat 
isfactorily  for  his  presence  in  Silverton  and  the 
'5  225 


Barbara 

condition  in  which  he  had  been  found.  He 
would  have  been  more  puzzled  if  he  had  been 
given  an  inkling  of  the  things  he  had  uttered 
and  the  confessions  he  had  made  during  his 
moments  of  unconsciousness.  If  he  had  but 
known  that  in  his  ravings  of  Barbara  he  had 
told  of  his  search  for  Roger  Timberly  and  had 
confessed  wildly  to  her  and  to  Mrs.  Lake  the 
depth  of  his  love  and  devotion  —  had  but 
known  that  he  had  laid  bare  the  innermost 
secrets  of  his  heart  and  that  he  had  begged 
Barbara  to  forgive  him  and  to  believe  that 
he  loved  her  sincerely,  —  if  he  had  known  all 
these  things  he  would  have  been  abashed  and 
covered  with  confusion.  Yet  so  strong  was  his 
love,  that  it  is  likely  he  would  have  been  driven 
by  the  very  knowledge  of  his  confessions  to  re- 
avow  their  truth. 

On  all  these  points,  however,  Gilbert  Bream 
was  blissfully  ignorant,  and  in  his  blindness  he 
began  to  weave  a  web  of  untruth  and  hypocrisy 
that  would  hide  his  soul,  as  he  thought,  from 
the  gaze  of  the  woman  he  loved ;  for  he  re 
membered —  he  could  not  for  an  instant  forget 
it —  that  when  he  had  declared  to  her  his  love, 
she  had  answered  his  protestations,  if  not  in 
words  at  least  in  effect,  with  the  declaration 
that  she  was  the  wife  of  another  and  in  love 
226 


Defeat 

with  her  husband.  Hence  Gilbert  Bream 
sealed  his  lips  on  the  subject  that  was  nearest 
his  heart,  and  by  and  by  began  to  talk  of  his 
trip  to  Feather  Bow  as  a  business  transaction, 
even  though  his  soul  ached  with  the  desire  to 
deliver  its  true  message. 

Mrs.  Lake's  countenance  had  often  a  world 
of  meaning  as  she  sat  alone  with  him  in  the 
little  room  and  listened  to  his  babble  of  busi 
ness  and  pleasure,  in  which,  somehow  or  other, 
Barbara's  name  was  always  inextricably  mixed. 
But  Mrs.  Lake  was  a  wise  sister  in  many  ways, 
and  she,  too,  held  her  peace. 

Thus  the  days  crawled  by,  and  the  storms 
alternately  raged  and  the  sun  shone  on  the 
white  towering  mountains,  while  Gilbert  Bream 
gained  strength  and  health,  and  the  deadening 
stiffness  and  numbness  went  out  of  his  frozen 
limbs.  The  foot  which  the  doctor  at  first 
thought  would  have  to  be  sacrificed  recovered 
its  sense  of  feeling,  but  slowly,  however,  and 
threatened  to  give  to  his  step  a  permanent 
limp. 

As  soon  as  the  physician  would  permit  him 
to  leave  Silverton,  Bream  departed  for  Denver, 
though  he  wanted  to  accompany  Barbara  and 
Mrs.  Lake  back  to  sunny  San  Diego,  where 
the  children  had  been  left  in  charge  of  Mr. 
227 


Barbara 

Lake.  Somehow,  without  good  reason  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  he  was  not  yet  ready  to  open 
his  heart  again  to  Barbara,  though  the  desire 
was  ever  present.  He  would  go  to  San  Diego 
later,  was  his  resolve,  when  he  felt  stronger, 
and  when  that  painful  limp  did  not  so  trouble 
him,  and  then  he  would  tell  her  how  much  he 
loved  her,  and  trust  to  his  great  love  to  win 
for  him  the  prize  he  coveted.  His  face  was 
wan  and  sorrowful,  nevertheless,  at  the  thought 
of  the  separation  ;  and  if  he  had  not  slain  his 
vanity,  when  he  took  Barbara's  hand  in  part 
ing  he  might  have  believed  that  she  exhibited 
some  show  of  emotion.  But  he  did  not  ven 
ture  to  bear  this  hope  away  with  him. 

Before  Gilbert  Bream  had  been  many  days 
in  Denver  he  began  to  experience  an  increas 
ing  consciousness  that  in  many  ways  his  actions 
toward  Barbara  had  been  base  and  unworthy. 
He  did  not  know  it  yet,  but  some  subtle  change 
had  taken  place  that  permeated  his  whole  inner 
being.  Things  done  and  things  thought  wore 
a  different  aspect.  The  truth  was,  that  Bream's 
manhood  was  being  uplifted  by  his  great  love. 
Even  to  know  Barbara  was  to  be  benefited ; 
to  love  her  was  to  be  transformed. 

"  I  am  not  worthy  of  her,  not  worthy  of  so 
good  and  true  a  woman,"  was  often  his  thought 
228 


Defeat 

as  he  sat  musing  in  his  room  in  the  Denver 
hotel.  "  Even  Roger  Timberly  was  more 
worthy  of  her  than  I  am.  But,  then,  no  man 
could  be  worthy  of  her.  To  think  that  I 
might  some  day  marry  her  is  to  think  of 
mating  the  vulture  with  the  dove.  Yet  I  can 
not  give  up  the  hope ;  and  so  long  as  I 
cannot,  the  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  see  if  I 
can't  make  myself  more  worthy  of  her.  I  can 
never  do  that,  of  course,  but  perhaps  I  can 
accomplish  something  in  that  line ;  and  per 
haps  when  she  sees,  if  she  ever  does,  that  I 
am  at  least  making  a  struggle,  she  will  think 
more  kindly  of  me.  She  might  come  to  love 
me.  I  thought  once  that  she  did  love  me, 
mole  that  I  am  ! " 

The  days  went  by,  and  the  great  desire  to 
tell  Barbara  again  that  he  loved  her  became  to 
Bream  irresistible.  He  was  not  yet  ready 
to  go  to  San  Diego  and  make  this  confession, 
with  the  confession  of  his  unworthiness,  at  her 
feet ;  but  he  felt  that  he  could  write  to  her. 
The  letter  and  the  distance  would  be  a  buffer 
to  ease  the  force  of  the  shock  if  she  scorned 
him  altogether.  And  so,  though  he  had  a 
sense  that  this  was  in  a  measure  cowardly,  and 
because  he  could  not  do  otherwise,  he  wrote 
Barbara  a  letter  —  a  letter  in  which  he  con- 
229 


Barbara 

fessed  everything,  the  search  for  Roger,  the 
motives  which  prompted  it,  the  irresistible  con 
clusion  of  Roger's  death,  his  undying  love  and 
devotion,  —  all,  all.  In  addition,  he  magnified 
the  baseness  with  which  he  charged  himself; 
and,  after  ending  by  telling  how  he  had 
acquired  Bexar's  mine,  he  enclosed  a  transfer 
of  it  to  Barbara,  together  with  a  bank  draft  for 
the  whole  amount  of  its  net  earnings. 

It  was  a  strange  letter,  a  mental  conglom 
erate  ;  but  it  revealed  to  Barbara  more  of  the 
heart  of  Gilbert  Bream  than  could  have  come 
through  years  of  ordinary  acquaintanceship. 
But  Bream  was  not  yet  pure  gold,  and  there 
was  one  thought  which  the  letter  did  not  re 
veal  to  Barbara.  This  was  well,  too,  for  the 
thought  was  essentially  selfish,  and  it  would 
have  hurt  and  humiliated  her.  That  was  the 
thought  and  the  hope  that  this  valuable  prop 
erty  and  the  bank  draft  for  the  large  sum  it  had 
earned,  would  lift  her  entirely  out  of  poverty 
and  remove  any  barrier  that  a  difference  of  finan 
cial  standing  might  interpose  between  them. 

Bream  was  in  a  fever  of  unrest  and  mental 
excitement  after  writing  and  posting  this  letter. 
Time  and  again  he  assured  himself  that  he  was 
a  fool  and  a  blunderer  for  writing  it,  yet  he 
could  not  wish  the  act  undone.  Within  a  week 
230 


Defeat 

he  received  an  answer.  He  tore  open  the  en 
velope  with  impatient  eagerness.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  waited  weeks  instead  of  days 
for  that  letter,  and  its  bulk  led  him  to  anticipate 
a  lengthy  communication  ;  but  he  saw  that  Bar 
bara  had  penned  only  a  brief  note,  and  that  the 
bulkiness  of  the  envelope  was  caused  by  the 
instrument  of  transfer  and  the  bank  draft,  which 
now  dropped  out  into  his  trembling  hands. 

The  letter,  which  was  dated  at  San  Diego, 
ran  as  follows : 

MY  DEAR  MR.  BREAM,  —  I  cannot  convey  to  you 
how  highly  I  value  the  honor  of  your  love  and  how 
much  I  esteem  you  as  a  friend ;  yet,  since  I  do  not 
return  that  love,  but  do  most  sincerely  love  the  hus 
band  who  seems  lost  to  me,  it  is  useless  to  think  it 
possible  that  I  can  become  your  wife.  Like  you  I 
have  begun  to  think  that  my  poor  husband  is  dead, 
and  since  your  dreadful  experience  at  Silverton  I  can 
see  readily  how  he  may  have  lost  his  life  in  one  of 
many  ways  without  the  fact  ever  reaching  any  one. 
Still,  I  hope  most  anxiously  for  his  return,  and  am 
unwilling  to  abandon  that  hope.  As  for  the  deed  to 
the  mine  and  the  draft,  I  must  return  them,  as  I 
cannot  make  it  seem  right  that  I  should  take  either. 
The  law  gives  you  the  mine,  and  what  is  yours  legally 
I  am  morally  unable  to  accept. 

Very  sincerely  your  friend, 

BARBARA  TIMBERLY. 
231 


Barbara 

Thus  were  Gilbert  Bream's  hopes  dashed 
to  the  earth ;  and,  though  latterly  they  had 
never  risen  high,  their  fall  steeped  his  soul  in 
bitterness  and  despair.  The  brevity  of  the 
letter  and  the  things  it  did  not  say  struck  him 
with  especial  emphasis.  Not  a  word  did  it 
hold  concerning  his  tedious  and  perilous  search 
for  Roger  Timberly.  He  had  confessed  the 
theft  of  the  photograph,  with  the  motive  that 
had  prompted  it ;  that  was  not  alluded  to. 
He  read  and  re-read  the  letter.  There  was  no 
hope  in  it.  She  did  not  return  his  love,  she 
had  said  so,  and  there  was  apparently  nothing 
for  him  to  do  but  to  acquiesce  in  her  decision, 
regrettable  as  it  was. 

The  receipt  of  this  letter  from  Barbara  filled 
Gilbert  Bream  with  a  dull  and  apathetic  hope 
lessness  which  made  him  anxious  to  get  away 
from  Denver;  and  as  he  was  unwilling  now 
to  go  back  to  San  Diego,  he  turned  his  face 
eastward,  in  an  uncertain,  hesitating  way  that 
was  altogether  unlike  any  of  the  characteristics 
he  had  previously  exhibited. 

Finding  no  ease  in  Chicago  or  New  York, 
Bream  fled  to  London,  then  to  Paris  and  to 
Rome ;  he  wandered  like  an  unquiet  spirit 
through  the  lands  of  the  Mediterranean ;  he 
thought  of  Barbara  under  the  paws  of  the 


212 


Defeat 

desert  sphinx,  and  in  the  shadows  of  the  pyra 
mids  he  studied  her  face  as  it  was  portrayed  to 
him  by  memory.  In  still  other  lands  and 
beneath  other  suns  recollections  of  Barbara 
pursued  him. 

Like  many  another  man,  Bream  was  attempt 
ing  the  impossible ;  he  could  not  escape  from 
himself,  and  because  the  memory  of  Barbara 
and  the  love  he  bore  her  had  become  a  part 
of  his  existence  he  could  not  escape  from 
that. 

It  drew  him  back  to  Denver.  But  before 
he  saw  Barbara  again  another  summer  had 
fled. 


233 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE   VICTORY   OF   THE   WINGED    GOD 

RETURNING  unannounced  to  Palmer 
Lake's  suburban  home  at  Denver,  Gil 
bert  Bream  found  the  residence  brilliantly  illu 
minated,  as  if  in  honor  of  his  coming.  In  the 
clear,  cold,  autumnal  night  the  stars  shone  with 
a  brightness  that  rivalled  that  of  the  electric 
lights,  and  the  crisp,  dry  snow  creaking  under 
his  feet  as  he  advanced  up  the  walk  made  him 
think  of  the  blizzard  and  the  snowy  mountain 
slopes  between  Feather  Bow  and  Silverton, 
where  he  had  fought  death. 

Thoughts  of  Barbara  had  been  with  him  all 
day  as  he  sped  westward  across  the  gray 
plains.  He  knew  that  she  was  still  with  Mrs. 
Lake,  almost  a  member  of  the  family,  in  fact, 
and  the  possibility  that  this  illumination,  so 
suggestive  of  festivities,  might  be  in  honor  of 
her  wedding,  came  like  a  stab.  Passing  round 
to  a  side  entrance,  instead  of  directly  into  the 
house,  he  learned  from  a  servant  that  a  recep 
tion  and  dance  was  in  progress.  This  infor 
mation  took  the  weight  off  his  heart. 
234 


The  Victory  of  the  Winged  God 

He  wanted  to  ask  about  Barbara,  but  could 
not  bring  himself  to  do  it ;  and,  having  gained 
access  to  the  house,  he  hurried  to  his  own 
apartments,  which  were  kept  always  in  readi 
ness  for  him.  With  no  further  announcement 
of  his  presence  he  descended  to  the  reception 
room  when  he  had  dressed,  in  a  fever  of  impa 
tience  to  meet  Barbara,  and  hoping  to  find  her 
there.  He  wondered  how  time  had  dealt  with 
her  since  their  last  meeting,  and  if  she  still 
hoped  for  Roger's  return — Roger,  whose  dust, 
he  was  sure,  had  long  ago  mingled  with  the 
mould  of  some  far-away  mountain  or  valley. 

Bream  sought  Mrs.  Lake  first  of  all,  and 
made  known  to  her  his  return  and  presence 
in  the  house.  She  was  overjoyed  to  see  him, 
but  she  said  not  a  word  about  Barbara,  though 
she  must  have  known  that  Barbara  was  upper 
most  in  his  mind.  Her  face  was  as  unreadable 
as  that  great  scarred  stone  visage  with  which 
the  Egyptian  sphinx  had  looked  at  him  from 
the  desert  sands. 

As  soon  as  he  could  disengage  himself  from 
his  sister  and  could  answer  some  of  the  many 
questions  asked  him  by  Mr.  Lake,  Bream 
passed  into  the  dancing-room,  looking  for  Bar 
bara.  The  place  was  filled  with  the  gliding 
figures  of  waltzers  and  with  beautiful  and  at- 
235 


Barbara 

tractively  gowned  women  and  their  escorts. 
Bream  stood  near  the  entrance,  his  gaze  roving 
from  point  to  point  with  intense  and  expectant 
eagerness.  Then  he  caught  his  breath  with  a 
quick  sigh.  Barbara,  more  beautiful  than  ever, 
was  waltzing  toward  him  with  a  young  army 
officer. 

Her  loveliness  intoxicated  him.  She  was 
attired  in  shimmering  white,  relieved  by  pink 
rosebuds  nestling  among  their  own  green  leaves 
on  her  bosom  and  a  cluster  of  the  same  flowers 
in  her  hair.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen 
her  in  evening  dress. 

Barbara  swept  by  without  seeing  him.  He 
felt  a  foolish  resentment.  Though  so  near,  he 
was  no  more  to  her  than  one  of  the  flowering 
plants  that  flung  its  fragrance  on  the  pulsing 
air ;  aye,  not  so  much  —  she  was  wholly  una 
ware  of  his  presence,  and,  as  he  thought,  had 
perhaps  almost  forgotten  his  existence.  He 
shot  a  glance  of  jealous  fire  at  the  young  army 
officer. 

In  this  moment  of  jealousy  Bream  moved  in 
a  direction  opposite  to  that  taken  by  Barbara 
and  her  companion,  and  finding  an  old  Denver 
acquaintance  he  begged  for  the  pleasure  of  a 
waltz  and  led  her  out  upon  the  floor ;  where, 
with  flying  feet  and  hearts  that  seemed  lighter 
236 


The  Victory  of  the  Winged  God 

than  air,  they  were  soon  in  a  whirling  chase 
after  Barbara  and  the  army  officer. 

It  was  during  this  waltz  that  Barbara  became 
aware  of  Gilbert  Bream's  presence.  The  knowl 
edge  came  like  the  thrill  of  an  electric  shock, 
and  her  heart  burned  with  an  unexpected  sen 
sation  when  she  saw  him  bending  above  this 
Denver  belle,  into  whose  ears  he  was  whis 
pering  little  more  than  airy  nothings.  The 
very  fact  that  Bream  was  no  longer  the  skilful 
dancer  he  once  had  been  —  was  not  the  equal 
of  the  young  officer  in  this  respect  —  touched 
Barbara,  for  she  reflected  that  the  halting  gait 
which  made  him  at  times  a  little  awkward 
was  a  relic  of  that  search  which  had  brought 
him  so  near  to  death.  She  no  longer  heard 
the  music  nor  the  officer's  persiflage,  while  her 
cheeks  took  on  a  hue  not  caused  by  the  exer 
cise.  All  at  once  there  had  come  to  the  heart 
now  palpitating  so  wildly  the  unsought  knowl 
edge  that  she  loved  Gilbert  Bream.  And 
straightway  the  walls  faded  away,  and  she  was 
once  more  in  the  little  room  in  Silverton,  where, 
in  his  ravings,  Bream,  confessing  his  search, 
had  again  and  again  urged  his  love  upon  her 
and  besought  her  to  become  his  wife. 

Those  hours  in  Silverton  had  remained  with 
Barbara  through  all  the  intervening  months, 
237 


Barbara 

and  they  had  'pleaded  Bream's  cause  with  a 
never-dying  eloquence.  In  spite  of  the  hope 
so  long  cherished,  the  certainty  of  Roger's 
death  had  now  been  fixed  indubitably  in  her 
mind.  During  the  summer  proof  had  been 
produced  which  could  not  be  gainsaid. 
Though  she  might  discredit  the  thoroughness 
of  her  own  investigation,  and  undervalue  like 
wise  that  made  by  Gilbert  Bream,  she  could 
not  believe  that  an  insurance  organization 
would  pay  to  her  the  value  of  the  policy 
Roger  had  held  on  his  life  so  long  as  a  single 
doubt  of  his  death  existed. 

That  had  been  done,  and  it  had  swept  away 
all  hope.  In  his  early  home  Roger  had  be 
come  a  member  of  a  mutual  insurance  organi 
zation,  and  had  kept  his  assessments  paid  after 
his  removal  to  Kansas.  Barbara  had  not  her 
self  moved  in  the  matter,  and  Roger  had  no 
relatives  to  do  so ;  but  the  subordinate  lodge, 
whose  members  had  been  so  well  acquainted 
with  both  Roger  and  with  Barbara,  had  taken 
up  the  question  in  her  behalf,  and  had  pressed 
it  so  persistently  upon  the  supreme  body  of 
the  organization  that  the  insurance  money  had 
been  sent  to  her,  not,  however,  until  the  dis 
bursing  board  had  sought  in  vain  to  show  that 
Roger  might  possibly  still  be  alive. 
238 


The  Victory  of  the  Winged  God 

The  lapse  of  time,  too,  even  more  than  this 
formal  action,  had  at  last  convinced  Barbara 
that  Roger  could  no  longer  be  in  the  land  of 
the  living.  She  knew  in  her  woman's  heart 
that  he  had  not  abandoned  her,  and  she  was 
quite  as  sure  that  nothing  less  than  death  could 
account  for  his  mysterious  disappearance. 

Out  of  this  maze  of  thought  and  recollection 
Barbara  was  recalled  to  herself  by  the  voice 
of  the  young  officer,  whose  presence  she  was 
quite  forgetting.  Thus  aroused,  she  continued 
through  the  waltz  without  a  further  lapse,  but 
with  a  fervid  and  beating  heart.  Bream  sought 
her  out  at  the  first  opportunity  ;  and  she  had 
so  far  recovered  her  customary  equanimity  that 
she  was  able  to  question  him  concerning  his 
return  and  his  trip  abroad ;  but  she  was  ill  at 
ease,  in  spite  of  her  self-control,  and  her  man 
ner  lacked  the  vivacity  and  warmth  of  feeling 
that  usually  characterized  it,  a  fact  he  could 
not  fail  to  note.  Bream  danced  with  Barbara, 
and  talked  with  her  as  much  as  he  had  op 
portunity,  and  throughout  the  evening  feasted 
his  eyes  as  much  as  possible  on  her  loveliness. 

The  longing  that  had  drawn  Gilbert  Bream 
back  to  Denver  held  him  there,  but  sore  recol 
lection  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  say  to 
Barbara  the  things  he  had  hoped  to  say.  He 
239 


Barbara 

was  uncertain,  too,  about  the  position  of  the 
young  army  officer  with  whom  she  had  danced 
on  the  night  of  his  arrival.  But  when  no  more 
was  seen  or  heard  of  that  young  gentleman 
Bream  began  to  feel  that  he  must  be  a  coward 
if  he  could  not  find  some  opportunity  in  which 
to  express  the  hope  of  his  heart. 

"  If  I  can't,  I  shall  have  to  go  away  from 
Denver  again,"  he  said  to  himself.  fc  I  'm 
eating  my  very  soul  out  here.  Yes,  I  shall 
have  to  go  away  ;  and  all  because  I  'm  a  coward. 
But  who  would  n't  be  a  coward,  feeling  as  I 
do  what  a  rejection  would  mean  !  But  surely 
time  enough  has  gone  by  now;  surely  she 
knows  now  that  her  husband  is  no  longer 
living !  And  perhaps  she  does  care  for  me  a 
little  ;  perhaps  she  could  learn  to  love  me." 

While  in  this  frame  of  mind  Bream  came 
upon  Barbara  one  evening  alone  in  the  quiet 
of  the  library.  Something  of  his  former  cour 
age  entered  his  heart  as  he  noted  the  agitation 
which  she  tried  to  conceal.  His  entrance  was 
unexpected  and  sudden,  and  she  had  been 
startled  into  a  temporary  and  partial  self- 
betrayal  ;  but  she  looked  up  quietly,  put  aside 
the  book  she  had  been  reading,  and  he  came 
and  took  a  seat  near  her. 

"  What  did  that  mean  ?  Did  I  read  her 
240 


The  Victory  of  the  Winged  God 

face  aright?"   he    asked  himself;    and  in  his 
mind  there  rose  the  familiar  lines  : 

"  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 
And  win  or  lose  it  all  !  " 

Suddenly  he  cast  aside  all  doubts  and 
hesitation,  all  memories  of  old  defeats  and 
foolish  mistakes,  and  resolved  to  risk  again 
the  momentous  question.  Nothing  could  be 
gained  by  silence  and  further  delay,  he  was 
sure.  Why  should  he  run  away  again,  when 
he  felt  that  he  could  not  live  without  the  love 
of  this  woman  ?  Thus  he  asked  himself.  He 
would  speak  to  her,  he  would  know  if  she  had 
changed  her  mind  in  any  way,  he  would  learn 
his  fate ! 

"  Barbara,"  he  began,  in  a  voice  that  was 
low  and  tremulous,  "  I  had  meant  to  go  away 
again  without  saying  anything  of  what  is,  as 
you  must  know,  at  all  times  uppermost  in  my 
mind." 

He  stopped  in  hesitation ;  but  when  she 
did  not  repulse  him,  he  continued,  in  tones  yet 
lower : 

"It  is  the  old,  old  story,  Barbara.  You 
know  that  I  love  you.  I  told  you  so  long 
ago,  and  now  I  must  tell  you  again.  I  cannot 

16  241 


Barbara 

help  loving  you.     I  love  you,  dear,  and  I  want 
you  to  become  my  wife/' 

In  his  earnestness  he  had  placed  his  hand 
on  her  arm.  He  slipped  it  farther  now,  as  he 
felt  her  tremble,  and  a  tear  fell  on  the  hand 
that  closed  over  hers  as  they  lay  in  her  lap. 

"You  are  free,  Barbara,  to  become  my  wife 
if  you  will,"  he  urged.  "  There  is  not  a  doubt 
of  it  in  my  mind,  and  I  do  not  see  how  it  can 
be  doubted  by  any  one.  The  months  and  the 
years  have  flown,  and  the  man  who  was  your 
husband  has  not  returned.  He  will  never 
return,  for  he  is  no  longer  with  the  living. 
You  must  see  that  yourself." 

Still  there  was  no  reply. 

"  Will  you  not  give  me  a  word  of  hope  ?  " 
he  begged.  "  I  can  be  patient,  Barbara.  I 
can  wait.  Heavens  !  have  n't  I  waited  ?  Give 
me  just  one  word  of  hope  ;  I  feel  that  I  shall 
die  without  it.  I  believe  that  you  do  love 
me,  Barbara.  You  do  love  me  !  Is  it  not 
so?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  tear-wet  eyes. 

"I  —  I  thought  I  did  not,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  that  quavered.  "  But  —  " 

Bream  caught  her  to  his  heart  in  an  im 
passioned  embrace,  his  rapture  passing  all 
bounds. 

242 


The  Victory  of  the  Winged  God 

"  Oh,  Barbara  !  Barbara  !  You  have  given 
me  such  happiness  as  man  never  knew  before. 
It  makes  another  being  of  me.  It  seems  to 
me  that  with  you  as  my  wife  I  can  do  anything 
—  dare  anything  —  accomplish  anything." 

Having  broken  bounds,  his  speech  flowed 
on  like  a  torrent  unloosed  from  the  fastnesses 
of  the  hills. 

"  You  cannot  know  how  it  has  uplifted  and 
changed  me  just  to  know  you,  Barbara ;  and 
what  could  I  not  be  if  surrounded  constantly 
by  the  influence  of  such  a  woman  —  so  sweet 
a  wife !  You  have  drawn  me  upward  toward 
your  own  high  conceptions,  and  you  could  and 
will  draw  me  still  higher." 

Gilbert  Bream  was  not  indulging  in  mean 
ingless  rapture ;  he  felt  and  meant  all  that  he 
said.  Barbara's  influence  had  uplifted  him 
most  wonderfully  ;  hence  he  could  declare  truly 
that  he  was  not  the  same  man  as  when  she 
had  first  known  him.  His  feet  had  indeed 
been  set  on  loftier  heights. 

c  You  do  love  me  ?  "  he  asked  again,  for 
Barbara  was  strangely  silent,  it  seemed  to  him, 
under  this  torrential  outburst. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  "  I  do  love  you,  Gilbert." 

Having  thus  learned  that  Barbara  really 
loved  him,  Gilbert  Bream  became  a  most  im- 
243 


Barbara 

patient  lover.  He  had  so  unexpectedly  won 
the  prize,  at  a  time  when  he  was  ready  to  be 
lieve  such  a  thing  impossible,  that  he  appeared 
to  fear  that  it  might  yet  be  snatched  from  him. 
He  urged  continually  that  the  wedding  should 
not  be  long  delayed,  and  Christmas  Day  was 
selected  finally  for  the  ceremony.  Then  fol 
lowed  days  of  preparation,  which  were  happy 
ones  to  Barbara.  Bream  walked  about  the 
streets  of  Denver  dreaming  dreams.  That 
which  had  for  so  long  been  the  hope  of  his 
existence  was  to  be  realized  at  last. 

The  wedding  by  which  Barbara  Timberly 
became  the  wife  of  Gilbert  Bream  was  a  very 
quiet  one.  The  city  and  the  plains  stretching 
away  to  the  mountains  were  robed  in  garments 
of  purest  white.  It  was  a  sacred  and  solemn 
hour  to  Barbara  as  she  stood  within  the  little 
church,  surrounded  by  a  few  friends,  and,  while 
the  bright  light  from  without  came  dimly  in 
through  the  stained  windows,  took  on  herself 
these  new  vows.  She  had  long  ago  laid  Roger 
Timberly  in  the  grave  of  her  dead  past,  and 
now  sought  to  face  a  future  which  she  prayed 
might  go  on  brightening  and  brightening  to 
the  end. 

Barbara  and  Gilbert  Bream  were  glad  to 
get  away  from  Denver,  and  turned  their  faces 
244 


The  Victory  of  the  Winged  God 

toward  the  East  with  pleasurable  anticipa 
tions.  Why  dwell  upon  the  details  of  that 
wedding  trip  ?  They  made  the  tour  of  Europe. 
They  saw  London,  Paris,  Italy,  and  the  Neth 
erlands.  Their  sojourn  was  lengthened  into 
many  months. 

Barbara's  influence  on  Bream  was  very 
marked.  Daily  he  grew  in  moral  fibre  and 
in  everything  that  makes  for  true  manhood. 
This  uplifting  of  Gilbert  Bream  was  not  in 
the  nature  of  a  sudden  miracle,  however; 
beginning  months  before,  it  was  the  unfolding 
of  a  slow  and  beautiful  growth,  as  the  flower 
unfolds  and  perfects  itself  under  the  influence 
of  the  genial  sunshine  of  heaven.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  that  Bream  idolized  Barbara.  She 
could  not  have  so  affected  his  entire  nature  had 
it  been  otherwise.  She  was  his  ideal  woman,  a 
little  lower  than  the  angels,  and  crowned  with 
glory  and  honor. 

How  far  away  to  Barbara  seemed  now  those 
old  days  with  Roger  on  the  plains  of  Kansas. 
Amid  the  gayety  of  European  capitals,  by  the 
storied  Rhine,  in  sunny  Italy,  there  was  noth 
ing  to  suggest  them.  Only  when  she  stood 
amidst  the  Swiss  mountains,  and  their  lofty 
heights  brought  back  memories  of  Pike's  Peak 
and  Cripple  Creek,  did  the  old,  dead  days  seem 
245 


Barbara 

near  again.  Even  then  she  found  it  difficult 
to  realize  that  her  persistent  and  frenzied  search 
had  been  a  reality,  and  more  than  once  she 
wonderingly  asked  heYself  if  it  could  be  pos 
sible  that  she  had  ever  been  the  penniless  and 
heart-broken  editor  of  Cripple  Creek  ?  Was 
she  really  the  woman  who  had  looked  with 
longing  and  aching  eyes  across  the  gray  plains 
for  the  star  route  mail  carrier  whom  she  daily 
expected  to  bring  to  her  from  Roger  the  letters 
that  never  came  ?  Yes,  she  was  the  same  ;  and 
yet  not  the  same. 

Finally  they  turned  their  backs  on  the  Old 
World  and,  after  tarrying  a  little  while  in  New 
York,  journeyed  leisurely  to  Denver.  The 
memories  evoked  by  this  crossing  of  the  plains 
were  peculiarly  painful  to  Barbara.  They  were 
taking  the  route  of  the  Platte  —  she  wondered 
if  Bream  had  chosen  it  purposely! — but  the 
plains  are  the  plains,  whether  seen  from  the 
valley  of  the  Platte  or  of  the  Arkansas. 

Those  far-reaching  expanses  of  crisp,  gray 
buffalo-grass,  with  here  and  there  a  solitary 
house  or  a  small  herd  of  cattle  —  how  familiar 
they  looked  !  Now  and  then  a  line  of  stunted 
trees  flanked  a  house  and  showed  the  fructify 
ing  touch  of  irrigation  ;  and  when  a  reflected 
bit  of  blue  sky  lay  on  the  earth  like  a  smoke- 
246 


The  Victory  of  the  Winged  God 

rimmed  lake,  there  swam  to  Barbara  again 
through  the  miragy  atmosphere  Bexar's  buck- 
board,  and  she  heard  once  more  the  "br-r-r-r  " 
of  drought-loosened  spokes  and  the  clatter  of 
pony  hoofs.  Then  she  drew  down  her  veil  as 
if  to  exclude  the  dust  that  worked  into  the  car, 
but  in  reality  to  hide  the  tears  that  came  un 
bidden  to  her  eyes. 


247 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

"BARBARA  :  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  SPIRIT " 

/GILBERT  BREAM  was  too  proud  of  his 
VJT  beautiful  wife  to  be  willing  to  begin 
their  new  life  in  Denver  in  anything  but  the 
most  magnificent  manner.  He  wished  his 
jewel  in  a  proper  setting,  and  having  won 
such  a  prize  he  was  anxious  that  his  friends 
should  recognize  his  good  fortune.  Barbara 
appreciated  deeply  Bream's  efforts  to  please 
her  and  to  add  to  her  happiness.  She  won 
dered  often  about  the  fate  of  Roger.  Though 
certain  of  his  death,  she  was  sometimes  startled 
into  asking  herself  what  she  should  do  in  the 
very  improbable  event  of  his  return.  She 
could  not  escape  these  questions  any  more 
than  she  could  escape  the  dreams  of  Roger 
which  sometimes  came  to  her. 

They  remained  quietly  in  Denver  through 
the  winter,  though  the  cold  frequently  brought 
torture  to  Bream's  frosted  limbs.  There  was 
an  almost  imperceptible  limp  in  his  gait,  which 
was  pathetically  suggestive  to  Barbara.  In 
spite  of  this  limp  Bream  was  a  handsome  and 
248 


"The  Confessions  of  a  Spirit" 

attractive  man,  with  square,  well-set  shoulders 
and  a  strong  face. 

Descending  the  stairway  one  evening  Bar 
bara  heard  sounds  of  conversation  in  the  hall 
below.  The  words  chained  her.  Bream  was 
talking  with  a  man  whose  voice  she  did  not  rec 
ognize,  but  Roger's  name  had  been  mentioned. 
This  man  was  Sam  Swainson.  Standing  in  the 
dimly  lighted  hall,  his  face  flushed  with  drink 
and  his  garments  in  rags,  he  looked  more  dis 
reputable  than  ever.  No  greater  contrast  can 
be  imagined  than  that  presented  by  the  two 
men  who  now  faced  each  other.  Swainson  had 
gone  from  bad  to  worse,  descending  from  depth 
to  depth,  until  what  little  manhood  he  had 
possessed  appeared  to  have  deserted  him  en 
tirely.  Now  he  had  come  up  to  Denver  and 
to  Bream's  residence  in  the  hope  of  extorting 
money.  Bream  had  been  in  the  hall  when  the 
door-bell  rang ;  he  had  opened  the  door,  and 
Swainson  had  pushed  in  past  him  with  a  snarl 
and  an  oath.  Now  he  was  swearing  and 
threatening. 

"  You  kin  say  what  you  please,  Gilbert 
Bream,  and  you  kin  kick  me  out  of  here  ;  but 
that  don't  alter  the  facts.  Timberly  is  alive, 
and  I  kin  show  it;  I  seen  him  not  a  month 
ago." 

249 


Barbara 

"  You  're  lying,  Swainson.  You  know  that 
Timberly  is  dead.  This  is  a  game  of  black 
mail." 

Swainson  was  repulsively  familiar  in  his 
reply. 

"  Never  a  lie  about  that,  pard.  Don't  you 
'low  yourself  to  believe  any  such  thing,  or 
you  're  bound  to  get  fooled  in  the  very  worst 
way.  Of  course  I  hain't  any  call  to  blab  the 
thing,  and  I  won't,  if  you  '11  make  it  of  interest 
to  me  to  keep  my  mouth  shut.  I  ain't  denyin' 
that  I  'm  hard  up,  fer  I  am.  A  small  amount 
o'  money  would  go  a  long  way  with  me  just 
now,  and  you  Ve  got  plenty  of  it." 

Gilbert  Bream's  anger  flared  out. 

"  Get  out  of  here,  Swainson,  or  I  '11  pitch 
you  through  the  doorway.  You  blackmailing 
scoundrel,  do  you  think  I  would  give  you 
money  to  —  " 

Bream's  voice  had  risen,  and  he  was  moving 
toward  Swainson  as  if  intending  to  put  his 
threat  into  execution,  when  he  was  stopped  by 
the  sound  of  a  fall.  In  another  moment  he 
had  leaped  to  the  foot  of  the  stairway  and  was 
bending  over  Barbara  who  was  lying  there  un 
conscious.  There  was  a  slight  cut  in  her  fore 
head,  received  as  she  fell,  and  her  white  face, 
showing  ghastly  under  the  light,  made  Bream 
250 


"The  Confessions  of  a  Spirit" 

fear  for  the  moment  that  she  was  dead.  In  a 
frenzy  of  alarm  and  anxiety  he  sent  a  call  ring 
ing  through  the  house  for  the  servants ;  then, 
supporting  Barbara's  head  on  his  knee,  he 
turned  toward  Swainson,  who  was  backing  in 
haste  through  the  doorway. 

"You  devil!"  he  said.  "You  have  killed 
her  ! " 

Swainson  vanished  ;  and  before  the  servants 
could  answer  his  call  Bream  lifted  Barbara 
from  her  limp  position  and  bore  her  quickly 
and  tenderly  to  her  room.  Then  the  physician 
was  summoned.  Barbara  was  not  dead,  but 
she  passed  down  into  the  very  valley  of  the 
shadow.  The  flickering  life  of  the  child  that 
was  born  to  her  went  out  like  a  candle  that 
is  rudely  blown  upon.  In  a  conscious  interval 
she  heard  its  pitiful  little  cry ;  then  she  sank 
back,  seemingly  into  the  very  arms  of  death. 
When  she  came  again  to  herself,  and  knew  she 
was  never  to  see  its  face,  her  heart  broke. 

In  those  trying  hours  there  was  no  limit  to 
the  devotion  of  Mrs.  Lake.  She  was  with 
Barbara  almost  constantly,  with  a  hand  ever 
ready  to  soothe  and  a  voice  ever  ready  to  en 
courage.  Nor  was  Bream  lacking  in  any  dis 
play  of  tenderness  and  watchful  care.  The 
blackness  of  despair  had  settled  on  him  when 


Barbara 

he  feared  for  a  time  that  he  was  to  lose  his 
young  and  beautiful  wife,  —  she  to  whom  he 
felt  that  he  owed  everything  that  was  worthy 
in  him,  and  whom  he  loved  so  devotedly.  The 
thought  of  facing  the  future  without  her  had 
been  maddening.  Now,  in  spite  of  their  mu 
tual  loss,  he  was  cheerful  and  almost  happy,  so 
stimulating  was  the  knowledge  that  she  would 
recover. 

Sam  Swainson  was  arrested,  at  Bream's  insti 
gation  ;  and,  being  brought  coweringly  to  the 
house  and  into  Barbara's  presence,  he  confessed 
in  a  fright  that  he  really  knew  nothing  of  Roger, 
and  that  the  statements  made  to  Bream  were 
made  solely  for  the  purpose  of  extorting  black 
mail.  The  wretch  fairly  shivered  as  he  looked 
at  Barbara,  who  lay  against  her  pillow  as  white 
and  fragile  as  the  petal  of  a  lily.  Her  re 
proachful  gray  eyes,  turned  on  him  with  such 
pathos  and  appeal,  penetrated  his  very  soul. 
Sam  Swainson  had  sunk  low;  but  he  was  not 
all  bad,  as  his  words  showed. 

"  I  did  n't  think  of  her,"  he  admitted,  shiv 
ering  as  he  looked  at  Barbara.  "  Indeed,  I 
did  n't.  Nor  I  did  n't  have  any  idea  that  she 
might  hear  what  I  was  sayin'.  Lord !  I  hain't 
got  nothin'  ag'inst  her.  I  just  felt  low-down 
and  mean  and  miser'ble,  and  was  determined  to 
252 


"The  Confessions  of  a  Spirit" 

have  some  money  by  fair  means  or  foul.  It 
may  be  that  Roger  Timberly  is  living  but  if  he 
is  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  it,  and  I  don't 
think  it." 

He  trembled  as  he  talked,  and  looked  alto 
gether  so  forlorn  and  so  sincerely  penitent  that 
Barbara's  sympathies  were  touched,  notwith 
standing  the  great  wrong  he  had  done  her. 
She  begged  Bream  to  let  Swainson  go  with 
out  punishment,  and  Bream  yielded  in  this, 
as  he  did  in  all  other  things  when  her  wishes 
were  made  known. 

Barbara  convalesced  but  slowly,  and  weeks 
went  by  before  she  was  able  to  be  driven  out. 
Then  her  strength  returned  more  rapidly,  and 
little  by  little  the  world  began  again  to  look 
fair  and  to  hold  a  promise  of  happiness.  More 
and  more  Gilbert  Bream  came  to  know  the 
loveliness  of  her  character.  He  could  un 
derstand  her  gentle  sweetness,  purity,  and 
nobility  better  than  once,  for  he  had  himself 
grown  in  all  the  essentials  of  true  manhood, 
and  her  influence  created  constantly  new  ideals 
for  him  and  lifted  him  ever  into  higher  atmo 
spheres.  Though  his  business  interests  were 
many  and  distracting,  Bream  always  found  time 
to  play  the  lover  to  Barbara. 

One  day  she  took  up  a  new  novel.  Bream 
253 


Barbara 

had  brought  it  in  that  morning,  saying  it  was 
attracting  some  attention,  and  that,  though  he 
had  not  read  it,  he  thought,  from  the  title,  she 
might  like  to  glance  it  over.  As  she  picked 
it  up  her  attention  was  caught  by  the  cover. 
It  was  dainty,  but  its  daintiness  was  rendered 
almost  bizarre  by  the  dim  outline  of  a  ghostly 
figure  that  swam  earthward  through  a  zone  of 
clouds,  bearing  a  written  scroll.  The  title  of 
the  novel  was,  "  Barbara  :  the  Confessions  of  a 
Spirit;"  and  the  name  of  the  author  was  given 
as  Alexander  Vane,  a  new  name  in  letters,  so 
far  as  she  knew. 

The  contents  were  quite  as  remarkable  as 
the  title ;  and,  as  Barbara  read,  her  interest  be 
came  painfully  intense,  and  the  odd  feeling 
came  to  her  that  she  had  somewhere  read  a 
work  that  must  have  been  identical  with  this. 
There  was  a  familiar  turn  to  the  sentences,  a 
peculiar  and  original  way  of  marshalling  the 
thoughts,  that  impressed  her  strangely.  It 
was  like  a  voice  from  another  life. 

The  story  was  of  Western  experience,  told 
by  one  having  the  pervading  spiritual  insight 
of  a  soul  that  has  cast  aside  its  clogging,  earthly 
vestments.  The  hero  of  the  story  was  repre 
sented  as  having  lost  his  life  in  Death  Valley  ; 
and  his  fate  was  in  a  measure  a  punishment  for 
254 


"The  Confessions  of  a  Spirit" 

an  angry  parting  with  Barbara,  his  sweetheart, 
in  a  moment  of  pique.  The  tale  took  such 
hold  on  Barbara  that  Death  Valley  became  to 
her  a  vital  reality.  Its  naked  lava  ridges  and 
staring  white  buttes ;  its  blinding  alkali  wastes; 
its  parched,  sand-filled  waterways,  sucked  dry 
by  the  drought  of  centuries;  its  blistered  peaks, 
lifting  themselves  in  the  swimming  distances, 
petrified  sentinels  on  these  plains  of  death ;  — 
Barbara  saw  them  all. 

With  the  hero  of  the  story,  she  wound  her 
way  in  agony  from  aridity  to  aridity,  tearing 
her  fingers  to  the  bone  in  frantic  efforts  to  dig 
to  the  water  that  seemed  to  lie  just  below  the 
surface,  lured  by  mocking  mirages  whose  lies 
were  as  beautiful  as  their  promises  were  false, 
then  with  swollen  tongue  and  bloodshot  eyes 
reeling  on  again,  pursued  by  shapeless  phan 
toms  that  grew  bolder  and  more  menacing  as 
strength  and  courage  dwindled.  By  and  by 
came  the  madness  of  torture  and  despair,  when 
the  teeth  of  the  hapless  wanderer  tore  in  frenzy 
at  the  earth  that  would  not  yield  its  moisture ; 
and  thus,  raving,  he  died. 

Trembling  and   agitated,  Barbara  put  down 

the  book   at  the  close  with  a  painful   feeling 

that   it   must    have    been    written    by    Roger 

Timberly.      Many   of  the  conversations  came 

2S5 


Barbara 

almost  as  recollections.  Its  sentiments  were 
such  as  she  had  heard  Roger  express  many 
times.  Yet  this  was  a  new  work  by  a  new 
author,  just  from  the  press  of  the  publishers, 
and  evidently  written  since  Roger  had  left  her 
and  gone  to  his  mysterious  death. 

"  Barbara  :  the  Confessions  of  a  Spirit !  "  was 
the  title  before  her  eyes ;  and  looking  at  this 
title,  as  she  pondered  over  the  strange  story, 
she  could  hardly  repress  the  almost  supersti 
tious  feeling  that  the  story  was  truly  the 
confessions  of  a  disembodied  soul,  —  Roger's 
disembodied  soul,  —  and  that  the  narrative  was 
a  circumstantial  account  of  the  sufferings  which 
he  endured  before  death  came  to  his  relief. 
She  believed  now  that  he  had  gone  out  into 
the  desert,  —  the  desert  beyond  the  Mancos, 
not  Death  Valley,  —  and  had  there  lost  his  life 
in  some  such  way  as  that  set  forth  in  the 
book. 

Barbara  tried  to  cast  aside  what  seemed  a 
foolish  fancy,  but  could  not.  If  Roger  were 
the  author  of  this  volume,  then  he  was  not 
dead.  And  thus  was  forced  on  her  the  dis 
turbing  reflection  that  she  might  be  mistaken 
in  the  belief  she  had  reached  concerning  his 
fate.  Perhaps  he  had  not  gone  to  his  death. 
Perhaps  he  was  living,  and  this  novel  was 
256 


"The  Confessions  of  a  Spirit" 

really  his  work,  under  an  assumed  name  now 
borne  by  him  as  his  real  name  or  under  a 
pseudonym.  Her  mental  uncertainty  and 
disquiet  became  pitiable.  There  was  some 
thing  in  the  book  which  told  her  that  it  had 
been  written  by  Roger ;  yet  she  had  so 
thoroughly  convinced  herself  of  his  death,  and 
above  all  had  so  stoutly  maintained  and  be 
lieved  that  he  would  not  have  deserted  her, 
that  she  could  but  conclude  that  the  strange 
similarities  of  style  and  thought  were  nothing 
more  than  coincidences. 

Mingled  with  these  harassing  thoughts  and 
conjectures  was  a  feeling  akin  to  fear,  which, 
though  she  tried  to  put  it  from  her,  returned 
persistently.  Was  she  now  willing  to  have 
Roger  come  back  into  her  life  ?  She  could 
not  be  the  wife  of  two  men.  She  recognized 
the  fact  that  if  Roger  still  lived  he  was  her 
husband  and  she  was  an  unwitting  bigamist. 
Bream,  whom  she  had  learned  to  love  as  she 
had  never  loved  Roger,  must  go  from  her 
side.  She  realized  now  that  her  love  for 
Roger  had  been  more  immature,  more  of  a 
girlish  fancy,  than  the  love  she  held  for  Gilbert 
Bream,  which  was  the  deep  love  of  woman 
hood.  True,  had  it  been  unbroken,  her  love 
for  Roger  might  have  grown  as  strong,  for 

'7  257 


Barbara 

hers  was  one  of  those  loyal  natures  which 
looks  not  beyond  the  crown  of  its  chosen 
king. 

The  immediate  result  of  the  reading  of  the 
book  was  a  determination  to  discover,  if  pos 
sible,  the  identity  of  the  author  of  "  Barbara." 
Having  decided  to  say  nothing  to  Bream  of 
the  disquieting  uncertainty  that  now  distressed 
her  until  after  she  had  secured  some  definite 
information,  she  wrote  a  note  of  inquiry  to  the 
publishers. 

Then  she  began  to  search  through  the  news 
papers  and  literary  journals  for  reviews  and 
criticisms  of  the  novel,  anxious  to  see  how  the 
critics  viewed  it,  and  what  were  their  opinions 
concerning  the  motive  that  had  induced  its 
writing.  She  found  that  it  was  being  gen 
erously  noticed,  but  the  opinions  of  its  merits 
and  demerits  were  as  divergent  as  the  poles. 
Some  regarded  it  as  the  work  of  a  fresh  and 
vigorous  mind,  others  discovered  in  it  the  ear 
marks  of  a  certain  well-known  author,  and 
others  still  thought  its  publication  little  better 
than  a  waste  of  good,  white  paper.  From  these 
clashing  views  Barbara  turned  in  despair,  for 
they  could  not  help  her. 

She  put  the  book  aside  that  evening,  that  it 
might  not  attract  Bream's  attention  and  induce 

258 


"The  Confessions  of  a  Spirit" 

questions  which  she  knew  she  was  not  ready  to 
answer.  He  did  not  recur  to  it,  fortunately. 
Barbara  had  not  regained  her  health  entirely, 
and  observing  the  next  morning  that  she  did 
not  seem  even  as  well  as  usual,  Bream  urged 
her  to  accompany  him  to  Georgetown  and 
Silver  Plume,  whither  he  meant  to  go  on  a 
brief  business  trip. 

"  It  will  do  you  good,"  he  said  anxiously. 
"  You  have  not  been  out  of  Denver  for 
months.  We  can  get  back  this  evening,  you 
know." 

Barbara  pleaded  that  she  was  not  strong 
enough  for  the  journey,  which  was  indeed  true, 
but  she  had  almost  a  sense  of  guilt  and  crim 
inal  deception  when  she  beheld  the  look  of 
pain  in  his  eyes.  He  returned  to  the  house 
at  noon,  saying  he  had  concluded  not  to  go 
away  at  all,  and  he  stayed  at  home  through 
out  the  rest  of  the  day,  anxious  and  solicitous. 
Barbara's  spirits  were  undeniably  low,  a  fact  he 
could  not  fail  to  recognize. 

Bream  remained  at  home  two  days,  when 
urgent  business  demanded  that  he  should  leave 
the  city.  Barbara  had  apparently  improved  in 
health  in  the  meantime.  The  declaration  of 
his  intention  to  be  gone  two  or  three  days 
really  brightened  her;  yet  the  tears  came  into 
259 


Barbara 

her  eyes  when  he  turned  to  go,  and  there  arose 
in  her  heart  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  tell 
him  everything  and  secure  comfort  and  reassur 
ance  from  him.  But  she  held  back,  terrified 
and  distressed  by  the  thought  that  after  all  she 
could  not  be  sure  that  he  was  her  husband. 

Bream  insisted  that  she  must  send  him  daily 
a  message  by  wire,  as  the  mails  were  too  slow ; 
and  when  he  passed  into  the  outer  hall  Barbara 
heard  him  instruct  one  of  the  servants  to  tele 
graph  him  without  hesitation  if  the  mistress 
should  chance  to  take  a  turn  for  the  worse,  as 
in  that  event  he  should  want  to  return  to 
Denver  at  once.  Then,  with  the  memory  of 
his  many  kindnesses  fresh  in  her  mind,  Bar 
bara  watched  him  go  slowly  down  the  walk, 
out  at  the  gate  and  beyond  her  sight. 

His  absence  made  her  lonesome  and  un 
happy  ;  still,  in  her  contradictory  heart,  she 
was  glad  he  was  gone,  for  the  constant  danger 
of  the  betrayal  of  her  thoughts  went  with  him. 
Now  that  he  was  away,  she  again  took  up  the 
volume  that  had  so  disturbed  her,  and  after 
reading  certain  impressive  pages  she  placed  it 
on  the  table.  She  desired  to  think  over  it, 
and  hoped  that  by  a  study  of  its  style  and 
contents  she  might  be  able  to  determine  in  her 
own  mind  if  the  author  were  Roger. 
260 


"The  Confessions  of  a  Spirit" 

When  Bream  had  been  gone  two  days  there 
came  a  letter  from  the  publishers  of  "  Barbara," 
stating  that  Alexander  Vane  did  not  desire  his 
address  and  identity  to  become  known ;  but 
that,  if  she  would  write  to  him  in  their  care, 
they  would  undertake  to  forward  the  letter, 
leaving  to  him  the  discretion  of  answering  it. 
The  wording  of  this  note  told  Barbara  that 
"Alexander  Vane"  was  but  a  pen  name,  and 
this  increased  the  feverish  uncertainty  under 
which  she  was  laboring.  More  and  more  she 
began  to  feel  that  "  Alexander  Vane "  and 
Roger  Timberly  were  one  and  the  same 
person. 

With  her  mind  in  a  whirl  of  doubt  and 
anxiety  she  now  wrote  a  long  letter  to  the 
author  of  "  Barbara,"  her  pen  running  on  and 
on,  even  while  she  was  constantly  on  the  point 
of  tearing  up  what  she  had  written,  for  she 
could  hardly  justify  herself  in  thus  laying  bare 
her  heart  to  one  who  was  probably  an  entire 
stranger.  When  it  was  written  she  did  tear 
it  up ;  and  wrote  instead  a  brief  note,  appeal 
ing  to  the  author  to  answer  her,  and  begging 
him,  if  he  were  Roger  Hayes  Timberly,  to  ex 
plain  his  strange  disappearance  and  subsequent 
conduct. 

"  I  shall  have  to  wait  more  than  a  week  for 
261 


Barbara 

an  answer/'  was  her  thought.  "  How  can  I 
endure  the  suspense  ?  But  Alexander  Vane 
cannot  be  Roger!  If  Roger  were  alive  he 
would  have  communicated  with  me  long  ago. 
The  thought  that  he  may  be  living  is  just  a 
silly  fancy.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  spoken 
to  Gilbert  about  it — ought  to  have  shown 
him  the  book  and  told  him  everything.  But 
I  couldn't — I  couldn't.  I  shall  tell  him 
all  by  and  by,  and  I  know  he  will  forgive 
me/' 


262 


CHAPTER    XIX 

"ALEXANDER   VANE" 

THE  next  day  Barbara  received  a  telegram 
and  a  letter  from  Bream,  which  she 
answered  perfunctorily,  feeling  like  a  hypocrite 
and  a  criminal. 

And  so  the  days  passed.  She  spent  much 
time  in  searching  the  papers  and  magazines  for 
literary  notices  of  "Alexander  Vane,"  and  suf 
fered  a  suspense  that  was  hardly  endurable. 
Bream  did  not  return  at  the  end  of  the  three 
days,  being  detained  longer  than  he  had  ex 
pected  ;  but  in  the  letter  that  came  in  his  stead 
he  said  he  was  hurrying  his  business  matters 
through,  and  assured  her  that  he  would  return 
as  soon  as  he  could.  Reading  between  the 
lines,  she  could  see  that  her  letters  and  mes 
sages  did  not  satisfy  him,  and  that  he  was  wor 
ried  about  the  state  of  her  health. 

Barbara's    suspense    increased    as    the    time 

passed.     She  knew  that  days  and  even  weeks 

might    elapse    before    she    could    hear    from 

"  Alexander   Vane."       He    might    be    at    the 

263 


Barbara 

other  side  of  the  globe.  She  was  sure, 
though,  that  he  was  an  American  writer,  and 
that  he  had  depicted  scenes  which  his  eyes 
had  witnessed. 

As  she  looked  over  the  headlines  of  the 
paper  one  morning  she  was  much  startled  by 
what  she  saw.  A  man  whose  real  name  was 
said  to  be  Talbot  Barnes,  but  who,  from  a 
letter  found  in  one  of  his  pockets,  was  be 
lieved  to  be  "  Alexander  Vane,"  the  author, 
had  been  run  down  in  the  night  by  a  Denver 
cab  and  was  lying  in  a  critical  condition  at  the 
city  hospital. 

"  I  must  see  him  at  once !  "  was  her  cry. 
"Oh,  my  God!  can  it  be  Roger?" 

From  the  account  that  followed  the  sensa 
tional  heading  she  learned  that  Talbot  Barnes 
was  a  stranger  in  Denver,  having  come  there 
not  long  before,  and  that  he  had  been  doing 
some  newspaper  work  for  the  "  Rocky  Moun 
tain  News."  The  report  of  his  landlady  showed 
that  he  had  kept  closely  to  his  room,  when  not 
at  the  office  of  the  paper,  and  that  he  had  done 
a  great  deal  of  writing.  He  was  also  said  by 
his  associates  on  the  paper  to  have  been  reti 
cent  as  to  his  past,  and  little  inclined  to  enter 
into  general  conversation  with  any  one. 

"  J  must  see  him  !  "  said  Barbara,  in  a  ner- 
264 


"Alexander  Vane" 

vous  tremor.  "  I  must  settle  this  doubt  or  it 
will  kill  me." 

Outwardly  repressing  her  feelings  she  has 
tened  to  the  hospital.  As  she  approached  the 
building  her  courage  nearly  failed.  A  dozen 
times  she  had  argued  herself  into  the  con 
viction  that  the  injured  man  could  not  be 
Roger,  only  to  brush  the  arguments  aside. 
The  strongest  of  these  arguments  had  turned 
on  the  name,  Talbot  Barnes.  Roger  might 
use  a  literary  pseudonym,  but  it  did  not  seem 
to  her  possible  that  he  would  adopt  an  alias. 

A  mist  swam  before  her  eyes  as  she  drew 
near  the  door,  but  she  conquered  the  feeling 
of  faintness  and  entered.  When  an  attendant 
approached  she  steadied  her  voice  and  told  him 
she  would  like  to  see  Talbot  Barnes,  the  man 
who  had  been  run  down  by  a  cab  in  the  night. 
She  had  drawn  aside  her  veil  and  the  face  she 
presented  was  as  colorless  as  wax.  The  attend 
ant  gave  her  a  keen  glance,  which  mingled  cu 
riosity  with  pity,  then  conducted  her  into  a 
waiting-room  and  left  her. 

He  returned  presently,  saying  she  could  see 
the  patient,  and  she  followed  him  silently  until 
he  stopped  in  front  of  a  door.  She  looked 
beyond  him  as  he  opened  the  door,  and  her 
vision  again  blurred  as  she  caught  a  glimpse 
265 


Barbara 

of  white  cots  in  a  ward  of  the  hospital.  Was 
Roger  occupying  one  of  them  ?  She  would 
soon  know,  she  thought,  and  passed  through 
the  doorway. 

Beside  a  cot  drawn  close  to  a  window  the 
attendant  stopped  and  beckoned,  and  Barbara 
advanced  with  breathless  anxiety.  The  occu 
pant  of  the  cot  was  asleep  or  unconscious,  with 
his  face  turned  from  her  so  that  she  could  not 
see  it.  The  air  was  charged  with  the  odor  of 
carbolic  acid,  evidencing  to  her  that  surgeons 
had  been  at  work.  After  an  instant  of  hesita 
tion  Barbara  bent  over  and  looked  into  the 
face.  There  were  patches  of  court  plaster  on 
it  and  a  bloody  bandage  across  the  forehead. 
But  there  was  no  mistaking  those  features. 
She  would  have  recognized  them  anywhere  and 
under  any  circumstances.  That  cut,  bruised 
face  was  the  face  of  Roger  Timberly.  As 
she  saw  this,  Barbara's  limbs  seemed  to  sink 
under  her,  and  the  attendant  pushed  forward 
a  chair,  into  which  she  dropped  with  a  painful 
sigh. 

cc  I  may  sit  by  him  awhile,  may  I  not? "  she 
asked  timidly. 

"A  little  while,"  he  said.  "  He  is  uncon 
scious  now,  but  we  hope  he  is  better.  A 
relative,  I  suppose  ?  " 

266 


" Alexander  Vane'5 

She  hesitated. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  a  relative." 

Then  the  attendant  went  away  ;  and  when 
Barbara  had  again  looked  into  the  bruised  face, 
studying  its  every  line,  and  had  listened  to  the 
labored  breathing,  she  took  up  a  nurse's  fan, 
and  sat  there,  with  staring,  tearless  eyes,  pon 
dering  on  the  deep  mystery  presented  by  this 
discovery.  It  could  not  be  solved.  Appar 
ently  Roger  had  abandoned  her  pitilessly  and 
without  remorse ;  but  this  she  could  not  be 
lieve.  Why,  then,  had  he  left  her  without  a 
word  of  explanation  ?  It  was  a  question  that 
Roger  only  could  answer. 

Barbara  recognized  the  fact  that  he  was  still 
her  husband,  for  she  was  not  willing  to  admit 
that,  having  abandoned  her,  he  had  probably 
also  sought  and  obtained  a  divorce.  On  the 
subject  of  divorce  she  held  to  the  beliefs  of 
New  Testament  scripture ;  and  thus  believing, 
even  if  Roger  had  secured  a  divorce  from  her, 
that  act  of  his  could  not  absolve  her  from  her 
marriage  vow,  which  had  been  until  death. 
But,  if  she  were  still  the  wife  of  Roger  Tim- 
berly,  what  was  she  to  Gilbert  Bream  ? 

It  frightened  her  to  reflect  that  Bream  might 
return  to  the  city  at  any  time,  —  that  very  day, 
that  very  hour,  —  and  not  finding  her  at  home 

267 


Barbara 

might  seek  for  her  and  discover  her  here.  She 
asked  herself  what  effect  such  a  discovery  would 
have  on  him.  Would  it  not  crush  him  ? 
However,  as  Bream  did  not  appear,  she  was 
given  time  for  a  thorough  study  of  the  situation, 
—  too  much  time,  in  truth,  when  the  thoughts 
that  came  were  of  a  kind  to  drive  her  into  a 
frenzy.  She  accused  herself  of  having  been 
hasty  in  consenting  to  a  marriage  with  Bream, 
though  she  knew  she  had  not  been  hasty. 
The  months  and  the  years  had  flown  since 
Roger  kissed  her  that  farewell  good-bye  on  the 
station  platform  in  Paragon.  She  had  waited 
and  believed  in  him ;  she  had  searched  until 
searching  was  in  vain.  His  silence  alone  had 
driven  her  to  the  conviction  that  he  was  dead. 
Was  not  his  the  blame,  then?  How  could  she 
know  that  he  still  lived  ?  Why  had  he  treated 
her  so  ?  He  could  have  written  a  letter  —  one 
little  letter ;  but  not  a  word  had  come  from 
him.  They  had  not  been  unhappy  in  their 
little  home  on  the  plains ;  she  had  felt  very 
happy  there,  and  she  believed  that  he  had  been 
happy  there  with  her.  Yet  he  had  gone  away, 
like  a  coward  and  a  craven,  without  a  word  — 
without  a  word  !  What  could  it  mean  ?  What 
did  it  mean  ?  These  were  some  of  the  thoughts 
that  burned  and  ran  riot  in  Barbara's  mind,  as 
268 


" Alexander  Vane" 

she  sat  silently  by  that  white  cot  in  the  Denver 
hospital  where  Roger  lay. 

Though  not  skilled  in  such  matters,  Barbara 
was  sure  that  Roger's  condition  was  serious. 
His  low  moans  and  his  restless  tossing  cut  her 
to  the  heart.  She  felt  an  unfathomable  pity  for 
him.  She  did  not  know  his  story,  unless 
something  of  it  had  been  detailed  in  his  book. 
There  might  be  —  there  must  be  —  palliating 
circumstances  !  She  resolved  not  to  believe 
any  evil  of  him,  unless  he  admitted  it  himself. 
Then  came  the  thought  that  he  might  con 
tinue  in  this  unconscious  state,  and  die  without 
giving  her  a  word  of  explanation.  That  was 
something  she  could  not  contemplate ;  if  it 
came,  it  would  be  something  she  could  not 
endure.  But  he  might  live  !  Did  she  hope 
that  he  would  live  ?  The  suggestion  that  she 
could  hope  for  anything  else  startled  her.  Yes, 
she  hoped  that  he  would  live,  whatever  the 
result  might  be.  She  was  in  God's  hands,  she 
assured  herself;  and  Roger  Timberly  and 
Gilbert  Bream  were  in  God's  hands.  If  Roger 
could  live,  she  asked  God  to  spare  him,  and 
then  guide  her  into  the  things  she  ought  to 
do.  If  Roger  lived,  she  would  still  be  his 
wife ;  and,  if  there  was  no  good  reason  why 
she  should  not,  if  he  had  a  valid  excuse  for 
269 


Barbara 

what  he  had  done,  —  yes,  she  would  again  live 
with  him  !  She  would  be  his  wife,  would  she 
not  ?  His  wife  !  —  even  though  she  knew  now 
that  she  loved  Gilbert  Bream  better  and  more 
than  she  had  ever  loved  Roger  Timberly. 

With  such  thoughts  Barbara  troubled  and 
distressed  herself  until  the  doctor  came.  She 
knew  that  her  mental  faculties  were  in  an 
incoherent,  chaotic  state.  She  did  not  seem 
to  be  able  to  think  clearly  at  all ;  and  none  of 
the  vexing  questions  could  be  settled  until 
after  Roger  had  told  his  story,  and  it  was  seen 
whether  he  was  to  live  or  to  die.  When  the 
doctor  came,  Barbara  rose  to  her  feet;  but, 
though  he  looked  at  her  in  inquiry,  she  did 
not  introduce  herself  nor  make  any  statement. 
What  name  could  she  give  him  ?  Mrs.  Bream, 
or  Mrs.  Timberly  ?  Fortunately  he  did  not 
put  his  curiosity  into  words.  She  stood  aside 
and  studied  his  face  as  he  bent  above  Roger ; 
but  the  face  was  as  expressionless  as  a  stone 
wall,  and  she  gained  no  information  from  it. 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  better  ? "  was  her 
trembling  inquiry. 

The  doctor  did  not  answer  until  he  had  lis 
tened  carefully  to  the  breathing  and  had  felt 
Roger's  pulse. 

"  It  is  a  life  and  death  fight,  madam,''  he 
270 


" Alexander  Vane" 

said  at  last,  as  he  rose  from  his  kneeling  posi 
tion  by  the  cot.  "  I  should  n't  want  to  venture 
an  opinion  either  way.  The  injuries  are  of  a 
serious  nature,  and  the  man  does  n't  seem  to 
have  been  very  robust.  He  is  rather  emaci 
ated,  as  you  can  see." 

The  hands  and  wrists  were  pathetically  thin, 
though  Barbara  had  noticed  that  the  palms 
were  hard  and  calloused,  as  if  Roger  had  been 
engaged  in  heavy  manual  labor. 

«  If  _  if  he  should  die,"  she  faltered,  "  do 
you  think  he  would  regain  consciousness  be 
fore  the  end  came  ?  " 

The  doctor  looked  at  her  closely,  with  the 
inquiring  expression  he  had  first  used.  Her 
face  was  white  and  drawn  and  her  eyes  large 
and  anxious.  Something  in  her  appearance 
touched  him. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  ought  to  express  an 
opinion  as  to  that  either,"  he  said,  in  a  softened 
tone.  "  But  we  will  not  admit  that  he  is  go 
ing  to  die.  His  condition  is  extremely  critical, 
but  not  hopeless." 

Nevertheless,  he  said  it  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  declares  sturdily,  against  the  indications 
and  the  probabilities,  that  "  while  there  is  life 
there  is  hope." 

A  nurse  came  up,  to  whom  the  doctor  now 
271 


Barbara 

gave  some  verbal  instructions,  and  then  wrote 
further  instructions  and  a  prescription,  which 
he  left  on  a  table. 

"  I  will  come  again/'  said  Barbara,  studying 
the  face  of  the  nurse.  She  felt  that  she  must 
go.  She  had  been  by  the  cot  a  long  time,  and 
Bream  might  be  at  the  house  waiting  for  her 
and  wondering  what  had  become  of  her.  "  I 
will  come  again  as  soon  as  I  can." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  asking  that  if  there 
came  any  turn  for  the  worse  in  Roger's  condi 
tion,  or  if  he  regained  consciousness,  she  should 
be  sent  for,  but  was  checked  by  the  puzzle  of 
not  knowing  how  to  make  her  wishes  known 
without  being  forced  to  say  more  than  she  was 
yet  willing  to  say,  and  by  the  further  reflection 
that  if  a  message  should  be  sent  to  the  house 
for  her,  and  Bream  were  there,  he  would  learn 
of  it. 

"  I  will  come  again  soon,"  she  reiterated,  in 
a  faltering  way ;  then  moved  away  from  the  cot 
and  out  of  the  ward. 

When  she  reached  home  she  found  a  letter 
from  Bream  awaiting  her.  This  she  opened 
nervously,  and  was  given  a  sense  of  genuine 
relief  by  his  statement  that  business  matters 
might  keep  him  away  from  Denver  a  day  or 
two  longer.  She  took  up  a  pen  to  answer  this 
272 


"Alexander  Vane" 

letter,  but  laid  it  aside.  What  could  she  say 
to  him  ?  Anything  would  be  false,  she  felt, 
that  did  not  express  her  feelings.  It  seemed 
to  be  worse  than  deception  to  write  him  a 
letter  which  made  no  mention  of  their  changed 
relations  —  changed  by  the  discovery  she  had 
made.  He  would  know  it  by  and  by,  and  she 
had  no  desire  to  hide  the  truth  from  him ; 
only  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  communi 
cate  it  yet.  He  would  know  soon  enough. 
It  would  destroy  his  happiness,  tear  down  the 
beautiful  fabric  of  his  home  life,  despoil  all  his 
hopes.  She  could  not  hasten  to  convey  to 
him  a  message  which  would  mean  for  him  such 
misery. 

"  I  will  send  no  answer,"  was  her  conclusion. 
"  That  will  hurry  him  back  ;  and,  though  I  do 
not  know  whether  I  desire  it,  perhaps  his  return 
will  be  for  the  best.  The  end  must  come,  and 
soon.  It  cannot  be  evaded." 

Having  learned  that  Bream  was  not  at  home, 
and  might  be  away  a  day  or  two  longer,  Bar 
bara  was  now  wild  to  get  out  of  the  house. 
Its  air  seemed  to  stifle  her.  Though  it  had 
been  her  home,  it  was  not  her  home.  She  be 
lieved  that  he  whom  she  had  regarded  lately  as 
her  husband  was  not  her  husband  ;  and  though 
she  had  mourned  sincerely  the  loss  of  her  child, 

18  273 


Barbara 

she  felt  that  she  ought  now  to  rejoice  that  it 
had  not  been  spared  to  her.  Anxiety  concern 
ing  Roger's  condition  drew  her  quickly  back 
to  the  hospital. 

cc  Your  name,  please  ? "  said  the  man  who 
now  met  her  at  the  door  when  she  asked  again 
to  see  Talbot  Barnes. 

She  hesitated.  She  had  hoped  the  question 
would  not  be  put. 

"  A  relative/'  she  said,  after  a  moment  of 
uncertainty  that  must  have  puzzled  the  ques 
tioner.  "  I  live  in  Denver,  and  I  was  here 
this  morning,  and  saw  him  without  objection 
being  made." 

"  The  man  who  was  hurt  last  night,"  he 
said,  as  he  admitted  her.  "  He  is  in  a  very 
bad  way,  ma'am.  But  I  suppose  it  will  be  all 
right.  I  will  ask  the  doctor." 

He  was  called  away  without  doing  so,  how 
ever  ;  and  Barbara,  who  knew  now  the  way  to 
the  cot,  was  soon  at  Roger's  side.  His  mind 
had  been  wandering  and  he  was  talking  wildly. 
She  believed  that  his  condition  had  grown 
worse.  Seating  herself  by  the  bed,  she  looked 
at  him  with  tender,  pitying  eyes  as  she  listened 
to  his  ravings.  He  muttered  sentences  and 
scraps  from  his  book ;  laughed  now  and  then 
at  the  humorous  talk  of  one  of  its  characters, 
274 


" Alexander  Vane" 

a  mirthless,  heart-breaking  laugh  to  Barbara ; 
but  raved  for  the  most  part,  and  seemed  to 
live  over  again  in  his  delirium  some  terrible 
experience,  —  the  experience  in  the  desert,  she 
believed. 

By  and  by  the  doctor  came  in  again  to  ascer 
tain  Roger's  condition.  Barbara  moved  aside 
to  make  way  for  him  as  before,  and  critically 
scanned  his  face. 

"  Still  very  bad,"  he  said  ;  "  but  he  might 
be  worse,  a  great  deal  worse." 

A  nurse  came  when  the  doctor  went  away. 
She  understood,  or  had  been  told,  that  Barbara 
was  a  "  relative  "  of  the  injured  man,  and  she 
gave  Barbara  a  kind  glance. 

"  We  think  he  is  some  better,"  she  ventured, 
as  she  looked  into  Roger's  face.  "  His  in 
juries  were  very  serious,  though,  and  the  doc 
tors  at  first  thought  he  could  n't  live.  But 
they  are  hopeful  now,  and  say  that  he  has  a 
chance.  He  has  a  good  deal  of  vitality,  even 
if  his  appearance  does  n't  indicate  it.  He  has 
been  working  very  hard,  I  presume  ? " 

This  was  in  the  form  of  a  question,  and  Bar 
bara  could  not  evade  an  answer.  It  was  a  safe 
question  to  reply  to.  Roger  always  worked  hard. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "  he  has  always  been  a  hard 
worker." 

275 


Barbara 

"  And  hard  work  will  tell  on  "any  one,  you 
know.  But  really  I  think  that  his  chances  are 
now  quite  good.  He  has  rallied  very  much  in 
the  last  hour  or  so." 

"  Has  he  been  conscious  at  any  time  ? " 
Barbara  ventured  to  ask. 

"  No,  not  yet ;  but  he  may  return  to  con 
sciousness  at  any  moment  now.  His  temper 
ature  is  not  so  high.  High  temperature 
produces  delirium,  you  know.  With  the  fall 
of  his  temperature  we  think  he  will  come  to 
himself.  Yet  those  injuries  to  the  head  are 
severe." 

She  sat  down  by  the  cot,  and,  looking  from 
Barbara  to  Roger,  continued  what  she  meant 
to  be  a  cheery  and  hopeful  little  talk.  She 
knew  how  serious  was  Roger's  state,  but  there 
was  hope,  and  she  desired  to  make  the  most  of 
that  hope,  for  the  benefit  of  this  "  relative," 
who  was  so  white-faced  and  evidently  so 
anxious.  Her  eyes  had  a  questioning  look 
at  times,  but  Barbara  did  not  care  to  tell  the 
nurse  just  then  that  Roger  was  —  had  been  — 
her  husband. 

As   evening  drew  on   the   improvement  in 

Roger's  condition  became  more  marked.     The 

nurse  had  gone,  and  Barbara  was  bending  over 

him,  passing  a  dampened  cloth  across  his  face, 

276 


"  Alexander  Vane" 

when  he  opened  his  eyes.  He  stared  at  her 
for  a  moment ;  then  he  recognized  her,  and 
with  a  cry  fell  back  as  if  dead.  That  cry  drew 
another  from  Barbara.  It  brought  a  physician 
and  some  attendants  hurrying  into  the  ward, 
where  they  found  Roger  apparently  lifeless 
and  Barbara  lying  across  the  cot  in  a  faint. 
Barbara  recovered  quickly  under  their  min 
istrations,  however ;  though  Roger  did  not. 
For  a  long  time  after  her  restoration  to  con 
sciousness  her  fears  were  very  grave. 

"  It  is  only  the  result  of  a  shock,"  the 
doctor  assured  her,  "  and  he  will  come  out  of 
it.  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  saying  some 
thing  to  him  which  you  should  not.  You  are 
related  to  him,  I  believe  P  " 

"  Yes/'  said  Barbara,  "  very  closely  related." 
She  wondered  if  she  ought  to  tell  the  whole 
truth  as  to  that  relationship.  It  might  be 
better  in  the  end.  But  somehow  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  do  it.  She  could  not 
share  her  thoughts  and  her  troubles  with  this 
stranger,  even  though  he  was  the  attendant 
physician  and  surgeon.  However,  she  de 
clared  that  she  had  not  spoken  to  the  patient 
at  all,  but  that  he,  rousing  as  if  from  a  sleep, 
had  appeared  to  swoon  when  he  saw  and  rec 
ognized  her. 

277 


Barbara 

"  His  outcry  and  the  fall,  which  I  feared 
was  more  than  a  swoon,  overcame  me,"  she  ex 
plained  ;  "  but  indeed  I  did  not  say  a  word  to 
him." 

The  doctor  remained  by  the  cot  a  long  time, 
and  when  he  went  away  it  was  evident  that 
Roger  was  again  much  better.  He  was  rest 
ing  quietly,  though  apparently  unconscious. 
When  at  last  he  came  once  more  to  himself, 
with  a  clear,  calm  light  in  his  eyes,  he  and 
Barbara  were  alone  together. 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  dream,"  he  said,  his 
face  brightening.  "It  seemed  too  good  to  be 


true." 


She  was  again  bending  over  him.  He 
passed  a  hand  falteringly  across  his  head  and 
looked  puzzled  when  he  touched  the  bandages. 

"You  were  hurt,"  she  explained  gently. 
"  You  were  knocked  down  and  run  over  by  a 
cab  in  the  street,  you  know." 

"  Was  I  ? "  he  asked,  evidently  struggling 
to  recall  the  circumstance.  Then  he  looked 
round  the  room. 

"What  place  is  this?" 

"This  is  the  Denver  hospital,"  she  an 
swered.  "  You  were  brought  here  after  you 
were  hurt." 

The  puzzled  light  did  not  leave  his  eyes. 
278 


" Alexander  Vane" 

"And  you?"  he  demanded.  "How  did 
you  get  here  ?  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

Where  had  she  not  been  ?  She  could  not 
answer  that  question,  but  said  : 

"  I  saw  in  the  newspaper  that  you  had  been 
hurt  and  I  came  here.'' 

She  took  the  weak,  wavering  hand  in  hers 
and  drew  it  toward  her. 

"  Oh  ! "  he  said,  in  reply  to  her  explanation. 

Then  he  closed  his  eyes  wearily  and  appar 
ently  fell  asleep. 


279 


CHAPTER   XX 
A    STRANGE    STORY 

AFTER  some  time  Roger  Timberly  again 
opened  his  eyes.  He  tried  to  smile 
as  his  glance  rested  on  Barbara,  who  still  held 
his  thin  hand  and  seemed  to  be  sitting  in 
the  position  she  had  assumed  before  he  fell 
asleep. 

"  It  was  n't  a  dream,"  he  said,  his  bandaged 
face  lighting  with  pleasure ;  "  not  a  dream 
that  you  were  sitting  there  !  " 

He  stared  round  the  room  again,  felt  of  the 
bandages,  and  memory  stirred. 

"  You  did  not  stay  in  Kansas  ?  "  he  asked, 
starting  up.  "  You  came  up  here  to  look  for 
me  ?  Denver !  How  did  1  happen  to  be  in 
Denver  ?  " 

He  stared  about,  and  seemed  hardly  to  ex 
pect  an  answer  ;  and  Barbara,  with  tears  that 
came  in  spite  of  herself,  watched  in  silence  the 
struggle  that  was  taking  place  in  his  mind. 
He  was  evidently  unable  to  recall  the  past,  a 
failure  which  Barbara  attributed  to  the  injuries 
given  to  his  head. 

280 


A  Strange  Story 

"  The  newspapers  say  that  you  came  here  to 
get  work/'  she  answered  at  last,  to  relieve  his 
increasing  bewilderment.  "You  secured  a 
position  on  the  c  Rocky  Mountain  News,' 
and  —  " 

He  stared  at  her. 

"  Then  I  must  have  come  here  from  Cripple 
Creek  !  "  he  said,  with  a  deep  and  puzzled 
sigh. 

"  You  are  worrying  yourself,"  she  urged. 
"It  will  all  be  clear  to  you  when  you  are  a 
little  better.  It  would  be  much  better  if  you 
would  try  to  rest  now.  I  think  I  ought  to 
forbid  further  talk.  The  doctor  would  not 
wish  it,  I  know." 

Only  a  deep  sense  of  duty  to  his  interest  en 
abled  Barbara  to  say  this.  What  Roger  had 
said  but  increased  her  anxiety  to  hear  more. 
He  was  puzzled ;  he  did  not  know  how  he 
came  to  be  in  Denver,  but  thought  he  had 
come  there  from  Cripple  Creek.  She  saw  that 
there  was  some  lapse  of  memory.  Apparently 
he  did  not  yet  recall  the  incidents  and  experi 
ences  which  had  intervened  since  his  visit  to 
Cripple  Creek.  That  would  come  later,  she 
was  sure,  and  it  meant  so  much  to  her  in  every 
way  that  she  felt  she  could  hardly  wait  for  the 
revelation.  Nevertheless,  she  crushed  down 
281 


Barbara 

this  wild  desire,  and  again  urged  Roger  to  talk 
no  more  at  that  time. 

He  was  like  a  tired  child,  and  being  thus 
emphatically  conjured  he  lay  back  on  the  pillow 
and  in  a  little  while  seemed  to  forget  the  things 
that  had  so  disturbed  him.  In  this  apparently 
somnolent  state  he  remained  for  some  time. 
Then  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  looked  Barbara 
earnestly  in  the  face  as  if  to  assure  himself  that 
she  was  actually  there,  and  began  with  feverish 
eagerness : 

"  I  remember  how  it  was  now  !  " 

Barbara's  heart  leaped.  The  awful  veil,  the 
dreadful  mystery,  was  to  be  removed,  and  at 
last  she  was  to  understand. 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on  ;  "I  went  to.  Cripple 
Creek,  and  then  I  started  for  the  Mancos 
country  with  Jim  Thompson.  Let  me  see  ! 
Why  did  we  go  there  ?  Oh,  yes,  Thompson 
said  there  was  gold  there  ;  and  then  I  wanted 
to  see  the  cliff  dwellings." 

Barbara  was  bending  eagerly  toward  him, 
clinging  to  his  hand,  wildly  anxious  for  every 
word.  Roger  stopped  with  clouding  face  and 
passed  his  free  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"It's  gone,"  he  said,  with  pathetic  disap 
pointment.  "  I  thought  I  could  remember  it, 
but  I  can't  seem  to." 

282 


A  Strange  Story 

Roger's  disappointment  could  not  possibly 
have  been  greater  than  Barbara's.  She  could 
have  cried  aloud  with  the  anguish  of  it.  She 
still  bent  over  him,  held  his  hand,  and  looked 
into  his  eyes. 

"You  will  remember  it  all  when  you  are 
better,"  she  said,  trying  to  keep  her  voice 
from  trembling.  "  Don't  try  to  think  any 
more  about  it  now.  You  can  tell  me  every 
thing  when  you  are  better." 

The  physician  came  into  the  ward,  advanced 
to  the  cot,  and  looked  keenly  at  his  patient. 

"  I  am  afraid,  madam,  that  your  presence 
is  not  doing  him  any  good  !  "  he  protested, 
though  his  tones  were  mild.  "  I  hope  you 
haven't  been  saying  anything  to  excite  him?" 

Roger  caught  the  low  words,  crying  out : 

"  She  shall  not  be  sent  away  !  Do  you 
hear?  I  want  her  to  stay.  Her  presence 
here  does  n't  harm  me,  it  does  me  good.  I 
want  her  to  stay." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  physician,  as  if  con 
ciliating  a  sick  child.  "  She  may  remain  awhile 
longer,  if  you  wish  it.  But  you  mustn't  talk 
too  much.  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  doing 
yourself  any  good  by  it,  Mr.  Barnes." 

As  soon  as  the  physician  was  gone  Barbara 
sought  to  impress  on  Roger  the  need  of  cau- 

283 


Barbara 

tion,  and  again  adjured  him  to  think  no  more 
about  the  matter  until  he  was  stronger.  But 
Roger  was  not  ready  to  obey.  He  stared  at 
her  in  inquiry,  his  memory  apparently  groping 
about  in  an  effort  to  piece  together  some  stray 
bits  of  recollection.  In  the  supposition  that 
his  mind  was  dwelling  on  the  words  of  the 
physician,  Barbara  tried  to  assist  him. 

"  He  thinks  your  name  is  Talbot  Barnes/' 

"  Barnes  ? "  he  questioned,  in  a  daze. 

"  Yes,  Talbot  Barnes/' 

The  puzzled  look  deepened. 

"  There  is  something  the  matter  with  my 
head,"  he  declared  at  last.  "  I  don't  seem  to 
be  able  to  think  clearly." 

"  Your  head  was  hurt  by  the  cab,  you  know," 
she  said  sympathetically.  "  As  soon  as  you 
are  better  it  will  be  all  right." 

He  appeared  not  to  hear  her. 

"  Barnes  !  "  he  muttered.  "  Talbot  Barnes  ! 
Talbot  Barnes  ! " 

Then  his  face  brightened  and  he  rose  half 
erect,  clutched  Barbara's  hand  with  a  nervous 
twitch,  and  stared  her  full  in  the  face. 

"  It 's  coming  back   to  me,"   he  said.     "  I 

was  in  the  Colorado  Insane  Asylum  !  "     He 

shivered.     "  It  was  there  that  I  took  the  name 

of  Talbot  Barnes.     They  didn't    know  what 

284 


A  Strange  Story 

my  name  was,  and  I  did  n't  know,  and  so  they 
gave  me  the  name  they  found  on  a  card  in  my 
pocket.  But  that  was  n't  my  right  name.  I 
remember  now.  It  is  Timberly.  And  your 
name  is  Barbara  —  Barbara  Timberly.  Yes, 
I  remember  now  !  " 

Barbara  had  crept  nearer  to  him  and  now 
had  her  arm  under  his  head,  supporting  it. 

"  You  must  not  talk,  Roger,  and  excite 
yourself  so.  It  will  be  better  for  you  if  you 
will  lie  down  and  keep  quiet.  You  can  tell 
me  all  about  it  after  awhile.  I  want  to  learn 
about  it,  but  you  can  tell  me  later." 

Barbara  did  not  know  whether  to  credit  the 
statement  about  the  asylum  for  the  insane  or 
not,  though  it  was  capable  of  explaining  many 
things.  His  eyes  were  wild,  and  she  doubted 
if  his  mind  was  perfectly  clear.  Her  desire 
to  have  him  tell  everything  was  palpitatingly 
keen,  but  a  due  regard  for  his  condition  caused 
her  to  urge  him  to  be  quiet. 

"  You  must  rest,  Roger !  "  she  insisted. 

"  I  can't  rest !  "  he  cried.  "  I  must  tell  you 
about  it.  That  is,  if  I  can  remember  it.  It 
comes  and  goes,  like  the  recollection  of  a  dream. 
One  moment  I  feel  sure  of  it  and  then  it  floats 
away.  I  must  tell  you  now  while  it  is  in  my 
mind." 

285 


Barbara 

He  was  panting  with  excitement  and  eager 
ness  and  would  not  hearken  to  her  urging. 

"  I  went  into  the  Mancos  country  with  Jim 
Thompson.  We  took  the  train  to  Dolores, 
and  continued  the  trip  from  there  on  mules. 
We  expected  to  be  back  in  a  week  or  ten  days 
at  the  outside.  I  wrote  a  letter  to  you  before 
starting  from  Cripple  Creek,  but  forgot  to  mail 
it  and  lost  it.  I  lost  some  other  letters,  too. 
When  we  got  to  Dolores  I  wrote  another  letter 
to  you,  and  gave  it  to  Thompson  to  mail  while 
I  looked  up  some  mules.  I  did  n't  know  that 
he  neglected  to  mail  it,  until  after  we  were  lost 
in  the  desert/' 

"  You  are  exciting  yourself,  Roger,"  she 
urged.  cc  You  should  n't  try  to  talk  until  you 
are  stronger.  You  can  tell  me  all  about  this 
later.  You  must  stop  now." 

"No,  I  won't  stop  now!"  he  declared,  his 
eyes  rolling.  "  I  must  tell  you  now  while  I 
can ;  it  may  go  away  from  me  again." 

She  started  to  rise  as  if  to  summon  the 
physician  or  a  nurse.  He  clutched  and  held 
her  hand. 

"  No,  you  shall  not  call  the  doctor.     I  don't 

want  him.     I  don't  need  him.     I  want  to  tell 

you  what   happened.      We  went  beyond   the 

Mancos  country,  and  in  trying  to  get  back  we 

286 


A  Strange  Story 

became  lost.  We  must  have  pushed  further 
into  the  desert  without  knowing  it.  After  our 
mules  died,  and  while  we  were  wandering  on, 
I  found  scraps  of  that  letter  one  day,  and  then 
I  knew  that  Thompson  had  forgotten  to  mail 
it  and  had  now  tried  to  destroy  it." 

The  look  that  came  into  Roger  Timberly's 
face  at  this  recollection  was  something  terrible 
to  see. 

"  I  flew  at  him  in  a  rage  and  tried  to  choke 
the  life  out  of  him.  The  thought  that  through 
his  neglect  and  forgetfulness  you  were  left  in 
ignorance  of  our  plans  and  destination  crazed 
me  for  the  time,  and  it  was  only  a  lack  of 
strength  that  kept  me  from  killing  him." 

Barbara  was  trembling  violently.  Again  and 
again  she  had  urged  him  to  be  quiet,  to  restrain 
himself,  and  tell  her  the  story  at  another  time. 
He  stopped  for  an  instant,  shaking  in  every 
nerve  and  muscle,  and  tried  to  wipe  the  beady 
sweat  from  his  face. 

"  God  !  it  was  awful  —  terrible  !  I  could  n't 
wish  such  agony  to  my  worst  enemy.  Per 
haps  I  was  more  to  blame  than  Thompson, 
for  I  failed  to  mail  my  letter  from  Cripple 
Creek,  but  I  did  n't  think  so  at  the  time. 
Well,  I  did  n't  kill  Thompson,  though  I  tried 
to  hard  enough  ;  but  he  died  of  thirst  and 

287 


Barbara 

hunger  soon  afterward.  Then  I  was  left  alone 
to  wander  on  and  on." 

Barbara  was  clinging  to  him  and  now  weep 
ing  convulsively.  Roger  heard  her  sobs  and 
looked  up  into  her  face.  His  bruised  and 
bandaged  countenance  took  on  something  of 
pitying  tenderness. 

"It  was  an  awful  thing  for  you,  dear,  was  n't 
it  ?  and  for  both  of  us  !  Words  can't  express 
it.  But  you  were  n't  to  blame  for  anything ; 
I  was  to  blame ;  I  ought  never  to  have  listened 
to  Thompson's  suggestions  of  gold  on  the  San 
Juan,  and  I  ought  not  to  have  given  way  to 
my  craze  to  see  the  cliff  dwellings.  I  was  all 
to  blame,  dear  !  " 

He  pressed  her  hand  as  if  asking  for  for 
giveness. 

"  It  was  a  terrible  thing,  but  I  suffered  for 
it  —  God  !  how  I  suffered  !  You  can't  know 
—  you  can't  realize  it  —  no  one  can!  Only 
one  who  has  been  through  it.  It  fevers  me  to 
think  of  it.  I  went  mad  for  water,  I  think,  for 
I  remember  dimly  of  rushing  here  and  there, 
hunting  for  it,  of  digging  into  the  sand,  and 
of  begging  God  to  give  me  water  or  kill  me. 
The  memory  of  it  fires  my  blood.  Thompson 
used  to  come  to  me,  after  his  death,  and  sit  on 
the  sand  and  leer  and  jeer  at  me,  and  hold  out 
288 


A  Strange  Story 

the  letter  and  ask  me  to  read  it  and  curse  my 
self  for  the  way  I  had  treated  my  wife.  And 
sometimes  he  would  be  ahead  of  me,  and  swing 
on,  pointing  out  water  holes ;  and  I  would  fol 
low  him,  and  then  he  would  drift  away  and  no 
water  would  be  there.  At  times  everything 
became  hazy  and  I  floated  over  the  sand  in  a 
sort  of  bloody  mist/* 

"  Don't !  don't,  Roger  !  "  Barbara  urged,  as 
she  had  urged  a  dozen  times  before. 

"You  can't  realize  the  horror  of  it!"  he 
panted,  dropping  back  on  his  pillow. 

She  smoothed  his  damp  hair  with  fingers 
that  trembled. 

"  Don't  tell  me  any  more  about  it  now, 
Roger.  No  one  can  realize  such  an  experi 
ence,  I  suppose,  who  has  n't  lived  it,  but  I 
realized  something  of  it  when  I  read  your 
book.  I  knew  that  you  had  put  your  own 
life  into  that." 

"That  book  was  not  a  dream,  then!"  he 
exclaimed.  "  I  did  write  a  book,  did  I  ?  Let 
me  see  !  What  was  the  title  of  it  ?  " 

"  <  Barbara,'  "  she  replied  ;  "  c  the  Confessions 
of  a  Spirit.'  " 

"Yes,"  he  said,  flushing  with  pride  as  the 
old  literary  instinct  struggled  in  his  breast,  "  I 
remember  all  about  it  now.  It  threw  the  critics 
19  289 


Barbara 

into  a  hopeless  muddle.  Those  fellows  can 
never  agree  about  anything,  though  they  set 
themselves  on  such  a  pinnacle  !  " 

He  became  quiet  now,  and  when  Barbara 
had  again  seated  herself  by  the  bed,  once  more 
with  his  hand  in  hers,  he  lay  looking  up  at  the 
ceiling  in  silence.  Reawakened  memory  was 
busy  piecing  together  many  things. 

"  I  don't  know  just  how  I  got  out  of  the 
desert,"  he  said  at  last.  C(  I  think  I  was  found, 
though,  by  some  prospectors.  I  know  that  I 
was  insane,  for  when  I  came  to  myself  I  was  in 
the  asylum." 

He  studied  the  ceiling. 

"  Yes,  I  recall  now  that  they  told  me  I  had 
been  found  in  the  desert  by  prospectors,  in  a 
crazed  and  destitute  condition.  When  I  came 
to  myself  in  the  asylum  everything  I  had  ever 
been  or  done  seemed  to  have  been  blotted  out 
of  my  mind,  except  a  knowledge  that  I  was 
there  in  the  asylum  and  had  an  existence  and 
must  have  had  some  sort  of  a  past.  I  could  n't 
remember  even  my  own  name,  and  they  called 
me  Talbot  Barnes,  because  that  name  was  on 
the  card  in  my  pocket.  I  thought  it  must  be 
my  name,  and  accepted  it  and  used  it." 

He  stopped  now  as  if  tired,  and  Barbara 
assured  him  that  he  had  told  her  quite  enough 
290 


A  Strange  Story 

for  one  time,  and  that  he  must  rest  and  think 
no  more  about  it.  Her  words  soothed  and 
quieted  him. 

"'But  you  forgive  me  ?  "  he  said,  appealingly. 
"  You  forgive  me  for  going  away  as  I  did  and 
not  getting  a  letter  to  you  !  I  intended  to  let 
you  know,  and  when  I  left  Kansas  I  fully 
meant  to  come  straight  back  to  you  from  Crip 
ple  Creek.  If  I  had  done  that,  everything 
would  have  been  all  right.  It  was  all  my 
fault  that  I  did  n't  return,  after  I  had  prom 
ised  to.  But  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  I  forgive  you  everything,  Roger  ! "  she 
said,  laying  her  hand  soothingly  on  his  ban 
daged  forehead.  "  Everything  !  " 

"  And  there  is  a  good  deal  to  forgive  ! " 

He  tried  to  smile,  but  it  was  a  wan  effort. 

"  But  I  suffered  for  it.  Heavens,  how  I 
suffered  for  it !  And  I  gained  nothing.  I 
did  n't  even  get  to  see  the  cliff  dwellings  I  was 
so  crazy  about.  I  wonder  what  became  of 
Bexar' s  claim  ?  That  was  it,  was  n't  it  ?  Yes, 
that  was  the  name — Bexar.  Queer  old  fellow 
Bexar  was  !  If  I  get  out  of  this,  I  think  I  '11 
run  down  to  Cripple  Creek  and  take  a  look  at 
that  claim.  It  is  n't  likely  that  any  one  has 
troubled  it.  Bexar  gave  it  to  us,  I  think, 
because  it  looked  so  unpromising." 
291 


Barbara 

It  was  clear  to  Barbara  that  Roger  was 
wholly  unaware  of  the  time  that  had  elapsed 
since  his  visit  to  Cripple  Creek.  It  would  not 
do  to  tell  him  of  the  paying  mine  which  had 
been  developed  from  Bexar's  claim.  There 
were  many  things  which  it  would  not  do  to  tell 
him  now.  She  thought  of  Gilbert  Bream 
with  an  aching  heart. 

cc  I  was  worse  than  the  proverbial  lost  sheep, 
when  I  left  the  asylum,"  Roger  went  on,  after 
a  minute  or  so  in  which  he  seemed  to  be 
thinking  of  Bexar's  claim.  "  I  was  discharged 
from  the  asylum  as  cured ;  but  how  can  a  man 
be  cured  when  he  has  no  memory  of  the  past 
and  does  n't  even  know  who  he  is  P  But  they 
sent  me  out  as  cured.  I  had  a  hard  time  of 
it,  after  that.  I  did  n't  know  what  I  had  been 
or  where  I  had  lived  or  what  I  had  followed ; 
I  did  n't  know  if  I  had  any  trade  or  profession. 
For  weeks,  it  seems  to  me,  I  must  have  been 
in  a  hazy  dream ;  perhaps  it  was  for  months, 
I  don't  know.  I  looked  about  for  work,  for  I 
had  to  have  some  way  of  living  ;  and  I  remem 
ber  now  that  I  drove  mules,  and  once  I 
worked  in  a  mine.  I  can't  recall  all  the  things 
that  I  did." 

Barbara  was  passing  her  hand  caressingly 
over  his  hair.  The  touch  was  soothing.  His 
292 


A  Strange  Story 

narrative  had  lost  its  first  torrential  force.  It 
flagged  now  and  then,  and  sometimes  stopped 
altogether,  only  to  be  resumed  a  minute  or 
so  later.  Such  a  stop  came  now.  He  ap 
peared  to  be  thinking,  trying  to  recall  that 
misty  and  half  incoherent  past.  Soon  he  went 
on  again,  taking  up  the  subject  of  his  book. 

"  It  came  to  me  by  and  by  that  I  had  been 
a  writer  before  I  was  lost  in  the  desert  and 
everything  went  from  me.  I  was  reading  a 
story  when  that  came  to  me.  The  story 
seemed  to  stir  up  that  memory.  I  knew  that 
I  had  been  a  writer,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  had  written  books.  Did  I  ever  write  any 
books  ?  " 

"Only  this  one,  so  far  as  I  know." 
cc  That  was  just  a  fancy,  then.  But  it  seemed 
to  me  I  had  myself  written  books,  and  it  oc 
curred  to  me  that  what  I  had  done  once  I 
could  do  again.  At  any  rate,  I  knew  I  had 
some  new  experiences,  and  was  sure  that  if  ex 
perience  went  for  anything  in  a  writer  I  had 
something  that  ought  to  put  a  nib  to  my  pen. 
But  first  I  searched  some  libraries,  thinking 
that  if  I  had  written  any  books  and  should 
come  across  them  the  reading  of  them  might 
bring  back  the  past  that  I  could  n't  recall  ;  but 
I  could  n't  find  anything.  I  know  now  that  I 
293 


Barbara 

had  never  written  any  books,  but  I  could  n't 
say  until  just  now  when  you  told  me.  Queer 
how  a  man's  mind  will  go  away  from  him  in 
that  fashion,  and  then  come  back  by  degrees 
and  go  away  again,  and  then  come  back,  as 
now.  If  I  were  a  psychologist  I  should  make 
a  study  of  that,  Barbara ;  and  maybe  I  shall 
any  way,  as  soon  as  I  can  get  out  of  this. 
That  infernal  cab  did  me  one  good  turn  when 
it  knocked  me  down  and  rolled  over  me.  It 
may  have  knocked  some  sense  out  of  me,  but 
it  certainly  knocked  a  bit  of  memory  back  into 
me.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  dead,  and  then 
resurrected.  You  don't  know  how  that  feels, 
but  it 's  mighty  queer.  I  shall  put  this  expe 
rience  into  my  next  book.  What  did  you  say 
was  the  title  of  that  book  ?  " 

4CC  Barbara  :  the  Confessions  of  a  Spirit.' ' 
"  Oh,  yes  ;  your  name  !  It  was  strange 
about  that,  but  that  name  —  your  name  —  kept 
coming  to  me.  Not  the  whole  name,  but  just 
(  Barbara.'  I  could  n't  say  that  I'd  ever 
known  any  one  by  that  name,  but  somehow  it 
kept  coming  to  me,  and  when  I  decided  to  try 
to  write  that  book  I  called  the  name  of  the 
heroine  Barbara.  I  remember  that  now,  and 
why  I  did  it.  And  I  put  into  the  book  a 
good  deal  of  my  experiences  out  there  in  the 
294 


A  Strange  Story 

desert.  It  was  a  good  idea,  I  think.  In  this 
next  book  I  '11  try  to  describe  how  it  feels 
when  a  man  has  been  dead  and  comes  back  to 
life  and  memory  again.  c  Lazarus  '  would  n't 
be  a  bad  title  for  it.  Yes,  I  think  I  shall  call 
it,  c  Lazarus :  the  Story  of  a  Resurrection.' 
That  has  a  good  sound,  don't  you  think  ?  If 
the  idea  is  worked  out  right,  such  a  story  ought 
to  make  a  hit.  c  Lazarus  :  the  Story  of  a 
Resurrection.'  I  like  that  title,  and  that 's 
what  I  shall  call  my  next  book.  It  makes  me 
want  to  get  right  out  of  bed  and  begin  work 
on  it  now." 

"  You  are  exciting  yourself  too  much,"  Bar 
bara  urged,  as  she  had  urged  more  than  once 
before. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  'm  not.  These  things  do  me 
good.  They  make  me  feel  that  I  'm  alive 
again.  I  've  been  dead  so  long  that  it 's 
good  to  know  that  I  am  so  no  longer.  You 
can't  know  how  queer  it  seems  to  feel  that  you 
have  been  dead,  and  then  wake  up  and  be  able 
to  recall  the  things  you  did  and  what  you  were 
before  you  died.  If  I  can  work  the  thing  out 
just  as  I  feel  it,  that  book  will  be  a  great  suc 
cess —  it  will  make  a  sensation.  That's  why 
I  should  like  to  begin  on  it  right  now,  while 
it 's  fresh  and  vivid  to  me  and  I  can  gauge  the 
295 


Barbara 

sensations  accurately.  Sensations  are  very 
evanescent  things,  you  know  ;  they  get  away 
from  one  so  quickly  unless  they  are  nailed 
right  down.  If  I  had  a  pad  of  paper  and  a 
pencil  I  could  write  out  the  whole  thing  right 
here,  or  enough  of  it  to  fix  it  in  my  mind." 

He  stared  at  the  ceiling,  and  his  thin  fingers 
moved  as  if  he  were  tracing  letters  on  a  pad 
of  paper  on  his  breast.  He  was  quiet  a  long 
while  this  time.  Barbara  sat  in  perfect  silence. 
She  did  not  think  these  exciting  memories  and 
thoughts  were  doing  him  any  good,  but  she 
felt  that  if  she  left  him  that  would  be  only  to 
excite  him  the  more.  The  touch  of  her  hand 
appeared  to  soothe  him,  and  he  seemed  really 
better  with  her  at  his  side. 

"  After  I  wrote  that  book,"  he  said,  opening 
his  eyes,  which  he  had  closed  when  he  stopped 
talking,  "  I  believed  I  had  once  done  journal 
istic  work.  I  wrote  the  book  in  Aspen,  where 
I  had  been  working  in  a  mine.  I  came  on  to 
Denver  and  secured  a  position  with  the  c  Rocky 
Mountain  News/  I  don't  know  just  how 
long  ago  that  was.  The  clip  that  cab  gave  me 
seems  to  have  muddled  me  on  such  things, 
but  I  suppose  the  people  at  the  office  will 
remember.  That  does  n't  matter,  though.  I 
know  who  I  am  now  and  what  I  have  been, 
296 


A  Strange  Story 

and  you  won't  let  it  slip  from  me  again,  if 
my  mind  should  get  hazy,  as  it  used  to 
sometimes." 

He  turned  from  his  contemplation  of  the 
ceiling  and  studied  her  face,  reading  in  it 
something  of  her  distress  and  perplexity,  some 
thing  of  the  anguish  which  tore  her  heart, 
something  of  the  emotions  that  swayed  her. 
Her  face  was  very  pale  and  her  eyes  showed 
still  the  traces  of  her  tears.  He  looked,  and 
he  thought  he  understood.  Even  in  this  hour 
Roger  Timberly's  old  selfishness  was  still  his 
most  dominant  trait.  The  emotions  that  had 
so  wrenched  Barbara  he  believed  to  be  due 
entirely  to  the  fact  that  she  had  found  him. 
He  had  not  asked  her  for  her  story,  nor  did 
it  occur  to  him  as  possible  that  she  might  have 
remarried  after  his  long  absence,  but  accepted 
as  granted  the  belief  that  she  was  in  every 
essential  the  Barbara  he  had  left  on  the  Kansas 
plains.  Memory  may  slip  a  cog,  but  a  man's 
ingrained  nature  never. 


297 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FACE   TO   FACE 

THE  thought  that  now  Barbara  would 
be  at  his  side  and  that  her  continuing 
presence  would  be  an  assurance  that  memory 
would  not  again  slip  its  cable  and  wander  once 
more  as  a  derelict  out  on  the  wide  ocean  of 
mistiness  and  uncertainty,  seemed  to  comfort 
Roger  Timberly  more  than  anything  else  could 
have  done.  He  grew  quiet  under  the  sooth 
ing  belief,  the  unhealthy  brightness  went  slowly 
out  of  his  eyes,  and  he  began  to  breathe 
naturally  and  easily.  He  was  very  tired  and 
very  weak.  He  lay  back  on  the  pillow,  stared 
at  the  ceiling,  and  clutched  her  hand  in  his 
hard  palm  as  if  in  emphasis  of  the  belief  that 
now  she  would  be  with  him  always,  and  thus 
holding  her  hand  he  fell  asleep. 

As  he  slept  his  breathing  became  heavy  and 
stertorous.  He  struggled  painfully  now  and 
then,  and  clutched  Barbara's  hand  in  a  tighter 
grasp  as  if  he  feared  that  now  when  he  had 
found  her  he  might  lose  her  again. 
298 


Face  to  Face 

"  Poor  Roger  !  "  said  Barbara,  as  she  gazed 
into  the  bruised  and  flushed  face.  "  Poor, 
poor  Roger ! " 

Then  the  tears  came  again,  falling  on  his 
hard  hand,  and  she  bent  over  and  kissed  softly 
the  bandaged  face. 

A  nurse  came,  but  Barbara  begged  that  she 
might  be  permitted  to  sit  by  the  patient,  finally 
winning  the  nurse's  consent.  Though  her 
nerves  were  overstrained  and  the  watch  was 
wearing,  she  again  and  again  won  consent  to 
remain  with  Roger,  and  sat  by  his  side  through 
out  the  long  hours  of  the  night.  She  did  not 
deem  it  likely  that  Gilbert  Bream  would  return 
to  Denver  until  late  in  the  day,  if  then,  though 
she  was  sure  that  her  failure  to  answer  his 
letter  would  bring  a  telegram  from  him.  But 
the  telegram  was  not  likely  to  be  received  until 
morning,  and  could  be  attended  to  then. 

So  she  endeavored  to  turn  her  thoughts 
from  Bream  and  from  the  future,  a  thing  which 
she  found  to  be  quite  impossible.  She  did  not 
want  to  go  home  —  was  it  her  home  now  ? 
She  did  not  want  to  meet  the  servants  and 
have  them  stare  curiously  into  her  ashen  face. 
Besides,  did  not  duty  require  her  to  remain 
here  at  the  bedside  of  Roger  Timberly,  who 
was  fighting  out  this  awful  battle  with  death  ? 
299 


Barbara 

He  had  been  her  husband  —  he  was  still  her 
husband,  in  spite  of  all  that  had  passed. 

The  lights  gleaming  in  the  streets,  the  sub 
dued  rumble  of  cars  and  carriages,  the  quiet  of 
the  hospital  ward,  the  softly  moving  nurses, 
all  strongly  impressed  her  imagination.  As 
the  slow  hours  wore  on  and  the  night  grew 
even  more  quiet  she  was  given  abundant  op 
portunity  to  think.  She  half  started  up  some 
times,  under  the  impression  that  she  must  be 
dreaming,  or  that  the  history  of  the  past  few 
months  must  be  a  dream,  and  had  to  reassure 
herself  by  a  look  about  the  room  that  it  was 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  but  a  terrible 
and  crushing  fact. 

Twice  during  the  early  part  of  the  night  a 
physician  came  in  and  critically  studied  Roger's 
face  and  pulse  and  listened  to  his  heavy 
breathing.  Each  time  she  asked  him  the  same 
question  : 

"  Don't  you  think  he  is  better,  doctor  ?  " 
The  last  time  she  received  the  answer : 
"  It  is  impossible  to  tell  yet.     He  is  quieter, 
and  we  hope  that  he  is  better.     But  his  inju 
ries  were  not  only  of  the  head,  they  were  inter 
nal,  and  they  were  severe.     The  time  that  has 
elapsed  is  in  his  favor,  and  the  fact  that   he 
seems  to  be  no  worse  is  a  good  indication." 
300 


Face  to  Face 

Then  he  directed  Barbara  how  to  give  cer 
tain  medicines  in  case  Roger  awoke,  and  went 
away.  Shortly  after  midnight  a  change  became 
manifest  in  Roger's  condition.  He  grew  more 
restless,  tossing  to  and  fro  and  moaning.  The 
doctor  was  standing  by  the  bed  at  the  time, 
and  Barbara  looked  into  his  face  in  anxious 
inquiry. 

"  It 's  a  favorable  indication,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  been  fearing  that  he  might  fall  into  a 
stupor." 

Barbara  could  hear  her  own  heart  beat  when 
she  asked : 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  get  well,  doctor  ?  " 

She  hung  breathlessly  on  the  reply  : 

"  This  marks  an  improvement ;  yes,  I  think 
he  will  get  well." 

Did  the  sigh  with  which  this  was  received 
indicate  that  Barbara  was  rejoiced  or  depressed  ? 
Was  it  glad  news,  or  the  reverse  ?  It  is  often 
so  hard  to  analyze  the  inner  feelings  of  one's 
own  heart  that  it  is  doubtful  if  she  could  have 
answered  these  questions  herself.  The  thought 
that  he  might  die  choked  her.  But  —  if  he 
lived  ? 

Thus  Barbara  sat  through  the  long  watches 
of  the  night,  insensible  to  fatigue,  ever  study 
ing  Roger's  bruised  and  bandaged  face,  and 
301 


Barbara 

giving  the  medicines  when  he  roused  up  with 
the  carefulness  of  a  trained  nurse.  For  hours 
at  a  time  she  hardly  moved.  Looking  at 
her,  as  she  bent  forward  in  her  chair,  one 
might  have  thought  that  she  had  fallen  asleep, 
but  her  active  mind  was  thinking,  thinking, 
thinking. 

The  gray  of  morning  came  at  last,  brighten 
ing  and  flushing  into  the  full  dawn.  Denver 
began  to  buzz  and  hum  like  an  awakening 
hive.  Trucks  and  milk  carts  rumbled  by. 
The  noise  increased  to  a  dull  roar  after  sun 
rise,  but  Barbara  could  still  hear  the  quick 
sounds  of  footsteps  passing  to  and  fro  in  the 
street.  Suddenly  she  half  leaped  from  her 
chair.  A  firm  and  rather  heavy  yet  uneven 
tread  had  turned  aside  toward  the  hospital 
steps.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and  listened, 
her  white  face  seamed  with  anxiety.  She 
believed  the  footsteps  were  those  of  Gilbert 
Bream. 

A  little  later,  standing  thus  in  strained  at-, 
titude  and  shaking  like  a  leaf,  she  caught  the 
sound  of  Bream's  well-remembered  voice,  as 
he  spoke  to  one  of  the  hospital  attendants. 
The  moment  which  Barbara  had  feared  and 
from  which  she  had  shrunk  had  come.  She 
tried  to  steady  herself  that  she  might  pass  out 
302 


Face  to  Face 

of  the  ward  and  meet  him  in  the  corridor,  but 
all  the  strength  went  out  of  her  body  and  she 
sank  limply  back  into  the  chair. 

Gilbert  Bream  did  not  know  to  what  he  was 
moving.  Induced  by  anxiety  to  return  to 
Denver  on  the  earliest  morning  train,  he  had 
been  spoken  to  as  he  approached  the  hospital, 
which  he  had  to  pass  on  his  way  home  — 
spoken  to  by  some  one  engaged  there,  who 
knew  his  wife  by  sight  and  thought  it  possible 
he  would  like  to  know  that  she  was  inside.  So, 
never  dreaming  of  the  truth,  Gilbert  Bream 
turned  from  the  attendant  at  the  door,  passed 
down  the  corridor  and  entered  the  hospital 
ward. 

He  beheld  Barbara  crouching  in  the  chair 
beside  the  cot  and  was  startled  by  the  face  she 
turned  upon  him.  He  had  never  seen  it  so 
white  and  ghastly.  He  could  not  understand 
why  she  was  there  and  why  she  should  look  so. 
He  was  on  the  point  of  rushing  to  her,  but 
staggered  on  his  feet  as  he  looked  past  her  to 
the  cot  and  recognized  the  man  lying  there  as 
Roger  Timberly.  Bream  could  not  be  mis 
taken  in  that  face,  bandaged  and  bruised  though 
it  was.  Those  features  were  stamped  on  his 
heart.  How  could  he  fail  to  recognize  Roger 
Timberly  even  in  that  disguise  ?  He  had  seen 
303 


Barbara 

him,  and  he  had  studied  every  line  of  Roger's 
photograph  a  thousand  times. 

The  question  Bream  was  about  to  ask  Bar 
bara  died  on  his  lips.  Nevertheless,  he  crossed 
the  room  and  put  his  arm  about  her.  The 
motion  was  one  of  protection,  though  he  did 
not  know  it.  Barbara  rose  to  her  feet  as  he 
lifted  her,  but  she  did  not  say  a  word. 

"  I  must  take  you  home,"  he  said,  in  tones 
that  trembled.  "  You  are  —  are  worn  out." 

"  Yes,  I  '11  go  home,"  she  answered.  "  We 
cannot  talk  here,  and  I  must  talk  to  you  or 
die." 

She  tottered  as  Bream  led  her  from  the  build 
ing,  and  was  in  an  almost  fainting  condition 
when  she  reached  the  street.  Weak  from  long 
watching  and  the  intense  mental  strain  to  which 
she  had  been  subjected,  his  sudden  appearance 
had  unnerved  her. 

Bream  supported  her  tenderly  to  the  corner, 
then  called  a  cab  and  assisted  her  into  it.  He 
was  silent,  except  for  this,  and  Barbara  could 
not  tell  how  he  was  bearing  the  shock,  though 
she  thought  now  and  then  that  she  felt  his 
strong  form  quiver.  She  had  not  the  courage 
to  look  into  his  face.  Still,  his  loving  assist 
ance  was  pleasant,  and  though  she  had  a  vague 
feeling  that  duty  and  propriety  required  her 
3°4 


Face  to  Face 

to  shrink  from  this  man  who  was  not  her  hus 
band,  she  clung  pitiably  to  him  in  spite  of  this 
feeling,  as  the  timid  and  frightened  child  clings 
to  its  father.  The  cabman,  urged  to  haste, 
drove  like  Jehu,  and  throughout  the  drive 
Barbara's  trembling  form  was  supported  in 
Bream's  strong  arms.  At  the  end  of  the 
journey,  when  the  cab  door  was  opened,  he 
lifted  her  out  bodily,  and  assisted  her  into 
the  house. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  he  said,  when  they 
were  alone  together. 

"I  can't — I  can't!"  she  urged,  shrinking 
from  him  for  the  first  time. 

Then  she  again  nerved  herself  for  the  ordeal, 
and  instead  of  sinking  down  and  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands,  as  he  thought  she  meant 
to  do,  she  took  a  newspaper  from  the  table  and 
gave  it  to  him,  pointing  with  trembling  finger 
to  the  account  given  of  the  accident  to  Talbot 
Barnes. 

"  You  remember  the  book  you  brought 
me  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  choking  voice,  — "  c  Bar 
bara:  the  Confessions  of  a  Spirit'?  It  was 
written  by  Roger,  though  it  did  not  appear 
under  his  name.  He  had  forgotten  his  real 
name,  and  was  passing  under  the  name  of 
Talbot  Barnes." 

20  305 


Barbara 

Her  voice  broke  a  little ;  but  she  went 
bravely  on,  and  in  a  few  sentences  contrived 
to  convey  to  him  the  substance  of  what  she 
had  learned  concerning  Roger. 

"  I  am  still  his  wife,"  she  said,  her  lips 
quivering  pathetically. 

A  sudden  despair  tugged  at  the  heart  of 
Gilbert  Bream.  He  put  his  arm  about  her 
and  drew  her  tenderly  toward  him. 

"Is  it  fair  ?  "  he  urged,  his  face  now  very 
pale  and  set.  "  Is  it  right  ?  I  feel  that  I 
cannot  live  without  you,  Barbara !  I  have 
become  the  man  that  I  am  through  your  in 
fluence  and  love.  You  do  not  know  how  you 
have  uplifted  and  helped  me.  Without  you 
I  can  never  be  anything.  Does  n't  that  give 
me  a  claim  —  such  a  claim  as  no  man  ever  had 
on  the  woman  he  loved  ?  " 

cc  Don't  tempt  me,  Gilbert  ?  "  she  begged 
weakly.  "  You  would  not  have  me  live  with 
you,  if  I  am  not  your  wife  ?  Roger  did  not 
desert  me.  He  would  have  come  back  to  me, 
but  he  could  not.  He  tried  to  send  a  letter 
to  me,  and  through  the  fault  of  another  it  never 
reached  me.  He  has  not  divorced  me  ;  he  has 
not  remarried.  He  does  not  realize  yet  how 
long  the  time  has  been,  but  seems  to  think 
that  I  have  come  on  from  Kansas,  drawn  to 
306 


Face  to  Face 

Denver  by  that  newspaper  report.  He  has  no 
thought  but  that  I  am  still  his  wife  —  and  I 
am  still  his  wife." 

She  tried  to  go  on,  but  became  hysterical 
and  drew  away  from  him. 

"  You  are  nervous  —  worn  out ;  you  have 
not  been  well,  you  know!"  he  urged.  "Let 
me  send  for  the  physician." 

"  No,"  she  said,  her  voice  dry  and  hard. 
"  I  do  not  need  a  doctor,  and  there  might  be 
troublesome  questions  if  he  came.  I  feel  faint 
and  sick.  If  you  will  leave  me  alone  a  little 
while !  " 

He  hesitated  ;  but  seeing  her  appealing  look 
he  went  out  of  the  room,  then  passed  into  a 
corridor  where  he  paced  nervously  and  anx 
iously  up  and  down,  grieved,  hurt,  and  with 
a  mind  surcharged  with  uneasy  forebodings. 

When  he  returned  to  the  room  finally,  she 
asked  him  gravely  if  he  would  not  go  to  the 
hospital,  and  leave  word  there  for  Roger  that 
she  was  too  ill  to  return  to  him  at  once,  but 
would  try  to  visit  him  in  the  afternoon  or 
evening. 

"  Not  this  evening  ? "  said  Bream  in  protest. 

"Yes,"  she  said  firmly.  "  I  must,  Gilbert; 
my  duty  is  there  !  " 

"  But  you  are  not  able  to  go." 
3°7 


Barbara 

"  I  think  I  shall  be  able,  after  a  little.  It 
has  tried  me  very  much,  you  know ;  but  I 
shall  be  stronger  again  by  and  by.  You  would 
not  have  me  stay  away  from  him,  would  you  ? " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  slowly  and  with  hesita 
tion.  "  I  suppose  not,  but  —  " 

"  He  may  die  at  any  time,  though  the  doctor 
thought  he  was  getting  better ;  but  the  case  is 
a  very  critical  one.  I  feel  that  I  must  go  to 
him  as  soon  as  I  can,  and  in  the  meantime  if 
he  should  ask  for  me  I  should  like  him  to 
know  that  he  may  expect  my  return  soon. 
You  will  go,  and  you  will  deliver  the  message, 
won't  you  ? " 

Bream  hesitated  again. 

"  Yes,  I  will  go,  and  I  will  deliver  the  mes 
sage,"  he  promised ;  "  but  I  don't  see  how  you 
can  hope  to  go  back  there  to-day.  You 
have  n't  the  strength  to  walk  or  to  ride,  and  if 
you  wear  yourself  out  as  you  've  been  doing 
—Yes,  I  will  go  !  " 

He  turned  toward  the  door  with  a  very  grave 
face,  then  stopped ;  stepping  back  he  kissed  her 
silently,  and  went  out  of  the  room  again. 

Perhaps  Barbara  did  not  know  how  hard  a 

task  she  had  set  Gilbert  Bream.     She  could 

not  have  chosen  a  harder.      He  fought  for  the 

mastery  of  himself  as  he  went  slowly  down  the 

308 


Face  to  Face 

stairs  and  to  the  street.  He  felt  all  his  good 
resolutions,  all  his  better  manhood,  slipping 
away  from  him.  Why. had  Roger  Timberly 
returned,  after  dropping  out  of  life  altogether 
for  so  long  a  time  ?  Would  he  live,  and  would 
he  tear  away  the  woman  who  had  so  changed 
the  life  of  another  man  ?  Bream  fought  the 
fight  to  a  finish,  as  he  thought,  by  the  time  his 
feet  touched  the  pavement ;  then  he  turned 
toward  the  hospital,  bent  on  obeying  Barbara's 
wishes  in  every  particular. 

At  the  hospital  Bream  gave  his  name  to  an 
attendant  at  the  door  and  entered  the  ward 
where  Roger  Timberly  lay.  As  he  approached 
the  cot,  Roger  opened  his  eyes  and  stared 
about,  and  began  to  call  for  Barbara  in  a  tone 
that  went  through  Bream  like  a  sword  point. 
He  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  into  the 
ghastly  face  and  burning  eyes,  racked  by 
strange  emotions,  then  delivered  the  message 
to  Roger  himself,  for  he  saw  that  Roger  was 
conscious.  Bream  was  pale  and  perturbed  as 
he  delivered  the  message,  and  Roger  stared 
hard  at  him  as  if  he  did  not  comprehend. 

Fortunately    a    doctor    bustled    in    at  this 
moment,  relieving  a  situation  that  might  have 
become    embarrassing.       The     doctor    knew 
Bream  and  greeted  him  cordially. 
3°9 


Barbara 

"  You  're  her  friend,  and  have  just  come 
from  her?  "  Roger  asked  pettishly,  still  staring 
at  Bream.  "  Why  did  she  go  away?  " 

Bream  was  about  to  reply,  but  the  doctor 
interrupted  by  saying  that  the  lady  had  watched 
very  faithfully  and  was  no  doubt  worn  out. 

The  physician's  words  stopped  further  petu 
lant  questions  on  the  part  of  Roger,  and  Bream 
breathed  more  freely.  Nevertheless,  his  heart 
hammered  unpleasantly  as  he  looked  into 
Roger's  face,  though  he  contrived  to  retain 
his  outward  calm.  Had  Roger  been  any  other 
man  than  he  was,  Gilbert  Bream  would  have 
pitied  him  sincerely. 

The  doctor  took  a  seat  by  the  cot  and  began 
to  ask  some  questions  of  the  patient,  but  Bream 
heard  scarcely  a  word  that  he  said.  He  was 
looking  at  Roger,  and  as  he  observed  the  leaden 
pallor  of  the  features  he  found  it  impossible  to 
crowd  out  the  swift  thought,  which  came  almost 
as  a  hope/ that  the  injuries  would  prove  fatal. 

After  a  few  words  with  the  doctor  he  re 
quested  that  if  any  change  in  Roger's  condition 
became  manifest,  information  of  the  fact  should 
be  sent  to  his  residence. 

"  My  God  !  I  cannot  give  her  up  !  I  will 
not  give  her  up  !  " 

That  was  the  wild  cry  that  rose  in  his  soul, 
310 


Face  to  Face 

as,  on  leaving  the  hospital,  he  sought  to  be  just 
to  Roger,  to  Barbara,  and  to  himself. 

"  I  cannot  live  without  her.  For  years  that 
man  has  been  in  the  land  of  the  dead  —  dead 
mentally,  if  not  physically  ;  and  now  he  comes 
back,  to  snatch  Barbara  away  from  me  !  Itfc  is 
more  than  I  can  stand." 

But  as  Gilbert  Bream  moved  away  from  the 
hospital,  from  that  cot  and  what  it  held,  the 
movement  and  life  of  the  city,  the  blue  benig 
nant  sky,  and  more  than  all  Barbara's  white 
pathetic  face  rising  now  before  him,  enabled 
him  to  withstand  this  fierce  torrent  of  feeling. 

"  Such  thoughts  make  me  unworthy  of  her," 
he  reflected.  "  She  is  an  angel  among  women. 
If  I  could  but  summon  strength  to  do  as  she 
would  do  and  feel  as  she  would  feel  under  such 
circumstances,  I  might  be  able  to  assure  my 
self  that  I  am  still  a  man." 

It  was  quite  impossible  for  him  to  do  any 
thing  of  the  kind ;  yet  the  aspiration  was 
beneficial. 

Barbara  listened  in  silence  as  he  delivered 
his  message  and  made  his  report  concerning 
Roger;  then  she  became  quite  apathetic,  and 
a  noticeable  restraint  convinced  him  that  she 
preferred  to  be  alone  with  her  thoughts.  This 
preference  he  respected,  and  left  her.  He  had  a 
3" 


Barbara 

battle  of  his  own  to  fight,  and  could  guess  some 
thing  of  the  conflict  that  was  raging  in  her  heart. 

Late  that  evening  a  messenger  appeared 
from  the  hospital,  with  information  that  Roger 
seemed  to  be  much  worse  and  called  for 
"  Barbara  "  constantly.  Bream  was  with  Bar 
bara  when  this  message  was  delivered.  He 
looked  at  her  and  saw  that  she  meant  to  go 
to  the  hospital. 

"  Shall  I  go  with  you  ?  "  he  asked,  rising. 

She  stood  for  an  instant  in  hesitation. 

"  No,  I  think  I  had  better  go  alone." 

The  decision  hurt  Bream,  even  though  he 
recognized  that  it  was  a  wise  one.  It  seemed 
as  if  she  had  deliberately  thrust  him  out  of  her 
life  and  heart,  when  he  could  not  be  permitted 
to  go  with  her  as  her  husband,  to  stand  by  her 
and  to  comfort  her  in  whatever  of  grief  and 
anguish  she  might  be  called  on  to  endure. 
But  it  was  better  so,  he  knew,  and  he  said  not 
a  word  of  protest. 

Roger  had  been  delirious,  but  the  clouds 
cleared  from  his  mind  when  he  heard  Barbara's 
voice.  He  looked  up  with  a  gasping  sigh  and 
caught  her  hand. 

«  I  —  I — thought — I — was  —  in  —  the  — 
desert  —  again  !  "  he  said,  with  a  shudder,  cling 
ing  to  her  hand  as  if  he  feared  its  release  would 
312 


Face  to  Face 

drift  him  once  more  into  the  terrible  land  of 
thirst  and  death  from  which  her  voice  had 
summoned  him. 

Barbara  knelt  at  his  side,  spoke  to  him 
soothingly,  held  his  hard,  calloused  hands  in 
her  own  soft  palms,  and  under  this  influence  he 
sank  apparently  into  sleep.  But  it  was  not  a 
natural  sleep,  as  she  could  tell  by  his  labored 
breathing.  When  the  physician  came  in,  she 
questioned  him  earnestly  in  low  tones  as  to 
Roger's  true  condition. 

"  His  life  hangs  in  the  balance,"  was  the 
answer.  <c  It  is  the  toss  up  of  a  penny  either 
way.  I  have  seen  many  men  get  well  whose 
conditions  were  worse,  and  I  have  also  seen 
many  men  die  whose  conditions  were  not  so 
bad.  It  all  depends  on  his  vitality.  If  he 
lives  until  morning,  he  will  probably  recover." 

The  physician  retreated  as  softly  as  he  had 
come,  and  Barbara,  with  Roger's  hot  hand  still 
in  her  own,  bent  her  head  forward  against  his 
bosom. 

"  Oh,  most  merciful  and  just  God  !  "  was 
her  prayer;  "  Thou  who  seest  the  past  and  the 
future,  and  all  of  this  life  and  the  next,  and 
knowest  our  hearts  and  our  needs  better  than 
we  can  know  them  ourselves,  look  down  upon 
us  and  pity  us,  Thy  children." 
313 


Barbara 

A  long  time  Barbara  knelt  thus  in  prayer, 
pouring  out  the  burden  of  her  troubled  heart. 
She  was  aroused  by  Roger's  restlessness. 

The  change  feared  by  the  physicians  came 
shortly  after  midnight  and  Roger  sank  rapidly. 
But  until  the  last  he  clung  pathetically  to  Bar 
bara's  hand.  When  the  end  had  come,  and 
she  crouched  by  the  cot  with  raining  tears, 
her  strongest  emotion  was  thankfulness  that 
in  his  wildest  ravings  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him  that  she  might  have  wedded  another. 

After  the  solemn  ceremony  again  uniting 
Barbara  and  Gilbert  Bream  she  turned  to  her 
husband. 

"  Until  death  do  us  part,  Gilbert !  "  she  said, 
gravely  reverent. 

And  he,  laying  a  kiss  on  her  lips,  answered : 

"  Amen  !  " 


Little,  Brown,  and  Co.'s  New  Novels 

The  Siege  of  Youth.  By  FRANCES  CHARLES,  author 
of  "  In  the  Country  God  Forgot."  Illustrated.  i2mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

This  is  a  story  of  the  present  day,  and  its  scene  is  San  Francisco,  the 
author's  home.  It  deals  with  art,  with  journalism,  and  with  human 
nature,  and  its  love  episodes  are  charming  and  true  to  life.  The 
three  women  characters  of  the  book  are  finely  drawn  and  contrasted, 
there  is  much  local  color  in  the  story,  and  a  great  deal  of  bright  and 
epigrammatic  writing.  The  author's  previous  book,  "  In  the  Coun 
try  God  Forgot/'  has  been  received  with  the  utmost  favor.  The 
Boston  Daily  Advertiser  says  it  "  discloses  a  new  writer  of  uncommon 
power." 

Barbara,  a  Woman  of  the  West.     By  JOHN 

H.  WHITSON.     Illustrated  by  Chase  Emerson.     12 mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

A  distinctively  American  novel,  dealing  with  life  in  the  far  West,  and 
in  many  ways  remarkable,  with  a  novel  plot  and  unusual  situations. 
The  scenes  of  the  story  are  a  Western  ranch,  Cripple  Creek,  and 
the  City  of  San  Diego.  The  heroine,  Barbara,  is  the  loyal  wife  of  a 
somewhat  self-centred  man  of  literary  tastes,  Roger  Timberly,  living 
on  a  ranch  in  Kansas.  Barbara's  long  and  patient  quest  for  her  hus 
band,  who  has  gone  to  Cripple  Creek  to  visit  a  mine,  the  means  which 
she  adopts  to  support  herself,  the  ardor  with  which  she  is  wooed  by 
Gilbert  Bream,  and  the  complications  which  ensue  are  extremely 
interesting. 

The  Shadow  of  the  Czar.  By  JOHN  R.  CARLING. 
Illustrated.  121110.  Decorated  cloth,  $1.50.  Fifth 
Edition. 

An  engrossing  romance  of  the  sturdy,  wholesome  sort,  in  which  the 
action  is  never  allowed  to  drag,  best  describes  this  popular  novel. 
"The  Shadow  of  the  Czar"  is  a  stirring  story  of  the  romantic  attach 
ment  of  a  dashing  English  officer  for  Princess  Barbara,  of  the  old 
Polish  Principality  of  Czernova,  and  the  conspiracy  of  the  Duke  of 
Bora,  aided  by  Russia,  to  dispossess  the  princess  of  her  throne. 


Little^  Brown,  and  Co.'s  New  Novels 


The  Dominant  Strain.  A  Novel.  By  ANNA  CHAPIN 
RAY,  author  of  "Teddy,  her  Book,"  etc.  Illustrated 
in  color  by  Harry  C.  Edwards.  i2mo.  Decorated 
cloth,  $1.50. 

Anna  Chapin  Ray's  new  novel  has  for  its  hero  Cotton  Mather  Thayer, 
whose  father  was  a  Boston  blueblood,  and  whose  mother  was  a  Rus 
sian  musician.  The  latter  gave  to  him  his  musical  temperament,  and 
the  title  of  the  book  suggests  the  author's  main  motif  —  the  warring 
strains,  Puritan  and  Slav,  in  her  hero.  The  central  idea  is  the  mis 
take  a  woman  makes  who  attempts  to  reform  a  man  after  marriage. 
Beatrix  Dane,  the  heroine  of  the  book,  discovers  during  her  engage 
ment  that  Lorimer,  her  lover,  has  an  inherited  appetite  for  drink,  but 
from  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty  does  not  break  her  troth,  and  her  inti 
mate  friends  shrink  from  any  interference.  Much  of  the  novel  has  a 
decidedly  musical  atmosphere,  and  the  attitude  of  some  portions  of 
New  York  society  toward  musical  people  is  well  described. 

A  Detached  Pirate.  By  HELEN  MILECETE.  Illus 
trated  in  color  by  I.  H.  Caliga.  i2mo.  Decorated 
cloth,  $1.50. 

A  misunderstanding,  a  divorce,  and  a  reconciliation  furnish  the  theme 
of  this  bright,  clever,  witty,  society  novel.  The  events  occur  in 
London,  in  Halifax  and  its  garrison,  and  in  New  York  ;  and  the  story 
is  told  by  Gay  Vandeleur,  a  very  charming  heroine.  The  book  will 
entertain  and  delight  all  who  read  it. 

The  Pharaoh  and  the  Priest.    Translated  from 

the  original  Polish  of  ALEXANDER  GLOVATSKI,  by  JERE 
MIAH  CURTIN.  Illustrated.  12  mo.  Decorated  cloth, 
$1.50.  Fifth  Edition. 

A  powerful  portrayal  of  Ancient  Egypt  in  the  eleventh  century  before 
Christ  is  this  novel  in  which  Alexander  Glovatski  has  vividly  de 
picted  the  pitiless  struggle  between  the  pharaoh  and  the  priesthood 
for  supremacy.  "  Here  is  a  historical  novel  in  the  best  sense,"  says 
the  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser,  "  a  novel  which  makes  a  van 
ished  civilization  live  again." 


Little^  Erown^  and  Co.'s  New  Novels 


Love  Thrives  in  War.  A  Romance  of  the  Frontier 
in  1812.  By  MARY  CATHERINE  CROWLEY,  author  of 
"A  Daughter  of  New  France,"  "The  Heroine  of  the 
Strait,"  etc.  Illustrated  by  Clyde  O.  De  Land.  1 2mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  surrender  of  General  Howe  and  his  American  army  to  the  British 
and  their  Indian  allies  under  Tecumseh,  and  other  stirring  events  of 
the  War  of  1812  form  the  historical  background  of  Miss  Crowley's 
latest  romance.  The  reader's  interest  is  at  once  centered  in  the 
heroine,  Laurente  Macintosh,  a  pretty  and  coquettish  Scotch  girl. 
The  many  incidents  which  occur  in  the  vicinity  of  Detroit  are  related 
with  skill  and  grace.  The  characters,  real  and  fictitious,  are  strongly 
contrasted.  Miss  Crowley's  new  romance  is  strongly  imaginative  and 
picturesquely  written,  wholesome,  inspiring,  and  absorbing. 

The  Wars  Of  Peace.  By  A.  F.  WILSON.  Illustrated 
by  H.  C.  Ireland.  i2mo.  Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

A  strong  and  skilfully  constructed  novel  upon  a  subject  of  the  great 
est  importance  and  interest  at  the  present  time,  — "  Trusts  "  and 
their  consequences.  Albion  Hardy,  a  successful  and  immensely  am 
bitious  financier,  organizes  an  industrial  combination  which  causes 
much  suffering  and  disaster,  and  eventually  alienates  his  only  son, 
who,  declining  to  enter  the  "  Trust,"  withdraws  his  capital  from  his 
father's  business,  and  buys  a  small  mill  and  attempts  to  manage  it 
according  to  his  own  ideas.  The  account  of  the  destruction  of 
Theodore  Hardy's  mill,  and  his  rescue,  is  dramatic,  vivid,  and 
thrilling. 

The  Queen  Of  Quelparte.  By  ARCHER  B.  HULBERT. 
Illustrated  by  Winfield  S.  Lukens.  121110.  Decorated 
cloth,  $1.50.  Second  Edition. 

This  stirring  and  fantastic  romance  of  the  far  East  has  for  its  chief 
motive  a  Russian  intrigue  to  throw  Quelparte,  an  island  province  of 
Korea,  into  the  hands  of  Japan  as  a  sop  for  the  possession  of  Port 
Arthur  by  the  Czar,  and  the  efforts  of  the  Chinese  directed  by  Prince 
Tuen,  to  prevent  it.  There  is  a  charming  love  story  running  through 
the  novel,  the  hero  being  Robert  Martyn.  an  American  in  the  employ 
of  a  Russian  diplomat,  and  the  heroine  is  the  latter's  daughter. 


Little,  Brown,  and  Co.'  s  New  Novels 

A  Rose  Of  Normandy.      By  WILLIAM  R.  A.  WILSON. 
Illustrated  by  Ch.  Grunwald.     1  2  mo.    Decorated  cloth, 


A  most  entertaining  historical  romance  of  France  and  Canada  in  the 
reign  of  Louis  XIV.  Robert  Cavelier,  Sieur  de  la  Salle,  and  his 
faithful  lieutenant,  Henri  de  Tonti,  are  leading  characters,  the  latter 
being  the  hero  of  the  book.  The  explorations  of  La  Salle,  his  hard 
ships  and  adventures,  the  love  of  Tonti  for  Renee,  the  "  Rose  of 
Normandy,"  their  escapes  from  the  Indians,  and  other  adventures, 
make  up  a  story  which  the  author  has  told  with  great  spirit. 

The  Spoils  Of  Empire.  A  Romance  of  the  Old 
World  and  the  New.  By  FRANCIS  NEWTON  THORPE, 
author  of  "  The  Constitutional  History  of  the  United 
States,"  etc.  Illustrated  by  Frank  B.  Masters.  i2mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Spanish  Inquisition  and  the  wondrous  splendor  and  power  of 
Mexico  in  the  time  of  Montezuma  furnish  the  rich  historical  back 
ground  of  this  brilliant  and  absorbing  romance.  The  conquest  of 
Mexico  by  the  adventurous  Spaniards  is  vividly  described  ;  and  the 
passion  of  Juan  Estoval,  a  follower  of  Cortez,  for  the  beautiful  Aztec 
princess,  Dorothea,  the  daughter  of  Montezuma,  furnishes  a  tender 
and  charming  love  story. 

Sarah  Tuldon.  A  Woman  Who  Had  Her  Way.  By 
ORME  AGNUS,  author  of  "  Love  in  Our  Village,"  "  Jan 
Oxber,"  etc.  Illustrated.  i2mo.  Decorated  cloth, 


A  remarkable  study  of  an  English  peasant  girl  of  strong  character 
who  was  developed  by  the  circumstances  of  her  life  into  a  fine,  noble- 
hearted,  and  generous  woman.  Sarah  Tuldon  is  a  very  unusual,  origi 
nal,  and  racy  type  of  character,  and  outside  of  Thomas  Hardy's  books 
there  is  no  such  realistic  study  of  conditions  which  exist  in  England 
to-day  among  the  laborers,  as  that  given  in  the  pages  of  this  story. 
The  author  has  genuine  humor  and  pathos  and  great  dramatic  skill. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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